That One Time At Band Camp
by StArCAtcheR17
Summary: He snapped a set of sunglasses into place and crossed his arms. "Welcome to band camp. I'm Dean Winchester. I'll be your section leader and your new personal god for the next two weeks. Now, go fetch me a sandwich, ladies."
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: Complete and total CRACK. **

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Gabriel dropped Castiel off that day with a twinkle in his eye. "Now, be a good boy, eat three square meals a day and don't mess with the upperclassmen unless they deserve it," he winked.

Castiel gulped and yanked his bursting suitcase from Gabe's old Volkswagen van. He barely made it five steps down the graveled path however before rushing back to the car in a whirl of panic.

"Trumpet," he said breathlessly to his brother and grabbed a worn black case from the passenger seat.

"Yeah, I hear you need one of those things for band camp," Gabe commented. "Now, don't do anything I wouldn't do!" he cried as he revved the wheezing engine and took off down the road, a cloud of dust trailing in his wake.

"Stellar advice once again, older brother," Castiel said to the empty road. He turned to where a rusted sign creaked in the breeze. It had a picture of a badly drawn treble clef and read "Golden Bell Summer Music Camp" in faded letters.

Actual tumble weeds rolled across the empty road and Castiel found himself missing his old home in Chicago. Kansas was flat and open. He couldn't quite get used to a place where he could see the horizon in every direction.

He trudged down the dusty lane and lamented the fact that he wouldn't know a single soul at his new high school. He clutched his trumpet a little tighter, as if the instrument could offer some small comfort.

A large dilapidated building slumped behind a sign that read "Mess Hall" and Castiel hesitantly swung open a pair of crooked doors.

In contrast to the stark exterior, the hall was bustling inside. Instrument cases and luggage of all sizes had been scattered haphazardly across the space and people milled in every direction. Yells of delight echoed as students were reunited with their friends and Castiel barely made his way through the crowd to the back corner of the room, where he intended to remain unnoticed for as long as possible.

A piercing whistle cut through the noise soon after however and the room fell silent. Castiel glanced up to see a grizzled man sporting a leather vest and baseball cap and holding a clipboard in one hand.

"Let's save the tearful reunions, shall we?" he groused. "You saw all these folks two weeks ago in class, for crying out loud. It's only June, you hormonal idjits. Now, if you don't mind, we have actual work to do."

A couple students laughed. "Love you too, Bobby," a voice yelled from the crowd.

"And aren't I so glad to see you're still a suck-up, Samuel Winchester," the man said with a fond eye roll. "And it's Mr. Singer to you when we're in school. Don't think I won't put you in detention with your brother again."

The man—Mr. Singer—popped a stick of gum in his mouth and moved to stand in the center of the room.

"For what it's worth, welcome to band camp," he began, like he had given the same worn-out speech hundreds of times before to generations of students "For all you idiot freshmen out there, the name's Bobby Singer and I have the unfortunate task of teaching you people how to march to music.

"We get two lovely weeks here, so I suggest you try to get along with your teammates. I'm not your mommy, so keep your personal lives to yourselves and we'll get on just fine. Nothin' else on earth scares me more than a teary-eyed freshman girl with boyfriend problems—that's what you all have each other for."

He eyed several fragile looking girls in the front of the room with distaste, as if they would start bawling right then and there.

"That being said, " he continued, "I only have one rule: Don't be an asshole. Of course, I realize that this is impossible for some of you morons, but before you go through with whatever incredibly stupid scheme you've devised in that mushy gray stuff you call a brain, I want you to ask yourself, 'Is there a chance I could get caught and this could backfire on me in unexpected and tragic ways?' If the answer is even remotely yes, don't do it."

He cleared his throat. "Did I make myself clear? Everyone still tracking with me?"

A couple of the more eager students bobbed their heads in the affirmative. Castiel scratched behind his neck nervously.

Mr. Singer rolled his eyes again. "Yeah, well, as per usual, your stunned silence is my cue to exit. Your drum majors will let you all know what cabin you're in. Take an hour to relax this afternoon, but don't forget that auditions for section leaders and part placement are tonight."

He gestured toward the double doors. "Now shoo. I'll see your ugly mugs later."

* * *

Castiel unrolled his sleeping bag over a crackly mattress. He had been placed in a cabin with three other freshmen boys who were currently preoccupied with something on the far bed.

"Dude, you are like the most awesome person I know. Where'd you get these?" a pale boy with a curly mop of red hair sighed.

"Ebay. They're limited edition," another boy with a mullet replied.

"We're so totally going to rock our worlds tonight, fellas," a third wiry and rather mousy looking boy added.

Castiel walked over to look for himself. Peering over their bowed heads, a deck of cards swam into view.

"These do not appear to be normal cards," he noted and the other freshmen jumped at the sound of his voice.

"No kidding, genius," Mullet-boy said. "These happen to be one-of-a-kind Swordmage power cards."

"Ahhh," Castiel returned, like he understood exactly what the boy meant.

Thankfully, Mullet-boy took pity on him. "Dude, it's okay, we'll teach you," he chuckled. "By the way—the name's Ash and I'll be your resident Dungeon Master. This here's Chuck and Garth and they're my back up singers."

Both boys looked reasonably offended by the statement but neither did they bother to contradict it. Castiel offered his hand to the group and they all stared at him in confusion, like they had no idea anyone under the age of forty could be that well mannered.

"Umm, thank you I suppose. I look forward to learning…" Castiel stalled, still unsure what they were actually doing.

"Dude. Dungeons and Dragons. You must be even more repressed than you look, and that's saying something considering you're wearing a trench coat in June."

"Of course. Thank you," he replied politely.

"Hey, it's not charity, man. You'll find a way to repay your debt."

Castiel knew that he wasn't the most socially adept person on the planet, but even he had trouble deciphering the conversation that had just taken place.

"What instrument do you all play exactly?" he asked, hoping to switch to a topic he actually understood.

"Trumpet," they answered together, still bent over the cards. Before Castiel could reply however, a knock sounded at the door.

"Fresh-meat! Get your lily white asses out here to report for duty!"

The other three scrambled to hide their cards and hastily tucked in their shirts. Garth licked a hand and attempted to comb his hair in a frantic and ultimately futile gesture.

"One moment, sir!" Chuck yelled, his eyes ablaze with terror of having to meet an upperclassman.

Castiel studied the scene in bewilderment. Ash grabbed him by the elbow and straightened the loose blue tie he liked to wear.

"It's our section leader. Head honcho, prima donna of the golden horn—you get the idea," he hissed.

"I thought there were auditions for those," Castiel said, remembering Mr. Singer's speech.

"Pure formality," Ash quipped and threw open the door as they stumbled out into the sunlight.

Castiel blinked and found himself face to face with a pair of bright green eyes. They were really almost an emerald color, he thought to himself before a hand shoved him roughly back.

"Whoa there, cowboy. It's called personal space."

"My apologies."

The green eyes belonged to a boy slightly taller than Castiel, who wore a frown on his face as he surveyed what must have looked like a rather motley crew of freshmen. He was dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, flip-flops and a light blue t-shirt that read, "Trumpet Players Do It Better".

Castiel wondered absently what the "it" was.

The boy seemed to come to some sort of decision regarding them however because he snapped a set of sunglasses into place and crossed his arms.

"Welcome to band camp, gentlemen. I'm Dean Winchester. I'll be your section leader and your new personal god for the next two weeks. Now, go fetch me a sandwich, bitches."

They scrambled for the honor. Castiel watched the dust trails rise from where the other three had been just moments before and wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into.

* * *

A large pack of teens ran by the cabin where Dean and Castiel stood and hollered at the green-eyed section leader in greeting. Dean raised his hand in some sort of complicated yes-we're-all-in-the-band-together-isn't-that-awesome salute and flashed a cocky smile their direction. At that, a thin gangly boy broke off from the group and jogged to Dean's side.

Castiel's first impression was that the kid was some sort of 80's film reject; he wore a lime green sweatband around a mop of wavy brown hair and matching green wristbands.

Still panting from the exercise, the boy slapped Dean's shoulder in an exhausted sort of way, leaving a wet imprint where his hand had landed.

"Dude. Way gross," Dean blanched and eyed the mark.

"Just another installment in the infinite payback I owe you for being my jerk of an older brother," he grinned.

"I'd say that payback's a bitch, but oh wait, you're already filled that position, Sammy."

The sweaty boy just laughed and slapped him again for effect. "So, are you going to introduce me to your freshmen or what?"

"Nah—just sent the pipsqueaks on a sandwich run."

"I think one got lost." A finger pointed in Castiel's direction.

Dean turned around and seemed surprised to find Castiel still standing in the same place. "Dude! Sandwich!" he said slowly, like Castiel must not have heard him clearly the first time.

Castiel wasn't entirely sure if he liked his section leader yet, but he couldn't help think that the exasperated manner in which Dean ordered him around was slightly endearing. He had no intention of fetching him a sandwich though.

The other boy smiled. "Ignore him. I'm Sam and, just in case this jerkwad was too busy being a tool to introduce himself, this is my brother Dean."

"Who happens to be both better looking and _older_," Dean emphasized. Sam grinned down at his brother sympathetically. He already had three inches on Dean and was probably still growing.

Castiel couldn't help but laugh and Dean shot him a glare in return, like he was now doubly guilty of insubordination.

He looked away from Dean's death-stare though and held out a hand to Sam. "I'm Castiel, but you can call me Cas, I suppose. Do you play trumpet as well?"

"Hell no," Sam grimaced at the same time Dean inserted, "He plays the flute."

Sam puffed his chest and stood a little straighter in righteous indignation. "I do not. I play the piccolo. Two different instruments, Dean."

"Oh yeah, because playing the piccolo makes you sound _less_ gay. My bad."

"Like you're one to talk," Sam said and Castiel noted that Dean's face turned a deep red.

"The point, Sam, is that if you played something like guitar, I could say you were all sensitive and shit, but you play the freaking _piccolo_, man. There's just no way to make that sound cool."

"I _am_ cool," Sam snapped. "I'm section leader and was voted band president."

"Don't worry, I think you're cool, Sam," Castiel interjected before Dean could rant about how Sam was just digging a deeper hole for himself with the whole 'band president' thing.

"Thanks, Cas," Sam said warmly and shook his head at his older brother. "You be nice," he told Dean. "I like this one."

Dean scowled at Sam from under his sunglasses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry this update took so long. I blame all these end of the year field trips I have to take students on. Why oh why am I forced to endure 8th grade trips to amusement parks? Such pain, such sacrifice. lol**

**I don't claim to know anything about Dungeons and Dragons. I just did a little research to suit my purposes:) Prepare for utter ridiculousness. **

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Castiel was fairly certain he was going to throw up. No, he was _definitely_ going to throw up, he decided and vaulted to the nearest trashcan.

Other than cold French fries and practically the entire Kardashian family, he couldn't think of a single thing he hated more than auditions. He liked performing, sure, but auditions were a whole different animal. He gripped the trashcan harder, watched his knuckles turn white and hoped it would all be over soon.

Consequently, it was only natural that fate would have Dean Winchester walk through the dilapidated gym doors at that moment and catch him dry heaving into the trash.

He didn't need to look up to know that particular brand of swagger could only belong to Dean. Even bent over and clutching at the trashcan like a lifeline, Castiel still had time to wonder whether someone had actually taught Dean to strut like that or if it just came naturally.

He waved the other boy away. "I'm fine, it's nothing."

However, Dean must not have realized the imminent danger he was in of having his shoes redecorated in a half digested PB&J, because a pair of feet headed his direction.

Dean's sneakers stopped short of Castiel though and crossed themselves casually as he leaned against the paneled wall of the gym.

"Rule number seven: Thou shalt produce a sandwich for your section leader when ordered," Dean stated airily and a shiny metal trumpet case swung back and forth into his peripheral vision. "You've angered the marching gods with your indifference, Castiel."

Castiel imagined he could hear the smirk in the other boy's voice and managed an eye roll into the trash. "Or, I don't like auditions. And it's just Cas."

"Or, you should have brought me a sandwich, _Castiel_."

Castiel finally looked up at Dean, who, as he had guessed, was smirking his direction. "You're used to getting everything you want, aren't you?" Evidently auditions also made him short-tempered.

Dean didn't even pause. "You betcha, angel-kid." He winked.

The more Dean talked, the more Castiel speculated on whether Dean's perfectly white sneakers might look better in a molted purple-brown color after all.

"You're not getting a sandwich from me."

"Is that a challenge I hear?"

"No, it's a fact."

"Too late. Challenge accepted! You shouldn't bet against me, you know. I always win," Dean said smugly. He reached into his bag and a white sheet of paper was unceremoniously jammed under Castiel's nose moments later.

"By the way, you're next, man," Dean said and jabbed at the paper where his name was written. "You should grab your horn or something unless hurling chunks is actually your musical talent."

Apparently Dean was the kind of person who could chuckle at his own joke even when no one else was laughing. Castiel managed to extract himself from the trash and collect his instrument while Dean watched.

Dean crossed his arms and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Dude, I don't even know what you're worried about. You're a freshman," he said, as serious as if he were teaching Castiel calculus or rocket science. "All you have to do is stay out of the way, pray for the day you'll finally be a sophomore and leave everything else to the big leagues."

Castiel snorted his appreciation as he pulled his trumpet from its case.

"Anyway," Dean continued, undeterred, "besides already possessing a set of mad skills, Bobby's totally my uncle. Hate to break it to you, but the whole thing was rigged from the get-go due to the blood-is-thicker-than-water clause or whatever you want to call it. So your audition doesn't really matter," he ended on an inspirational note and slapped Castiel on the shoulder.

The sad thing was that, in his own way, Dean was actually trying to be helpful, Castiel felt.

"Now, go gettem', Newb!" Dean cried and strutted out the gym doors to probably go motivate some other unsuspecting freshman.

* * *

Bobby Singer slouched back in his chair, hands steepled and eyebrows raised.

"You suck less than I expected, Novak. Definitely less than most of the idiots running around here. Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir?" Castiel tried to process what the director was talking about but soon gave up. He couldn't even remember the last ten minutes of his life and vaguely hoped he had actually played the audition music and hadn't merely stood there staring creepily at the man.

Bobby snapped his fingers impatiently. "Son, you still with me here?" he inquired gruffly, probably already on his way to concluding that he had been wrong about Castiel's intelligence after all.

Castiel straightened up. "Yes, of course."

Bobby nodded at that, swung his chair around and consulted his clipboard. "Great. Glad that's settled then. I'll see your butt at six o'clock sharp for rehearsal. Don't be late," he said and proceeded to ignore him completely.

"Sir?" Castiel ventured and switched feet uncomfortably. "I think…I mean, I don't think I quite understand," he mumbled.

Bobby added a final stroke to whatever he had been writing and stood. With a jerk of his finger, he motioned for Castiel to follow. He then tore a messily scripted list from his clipboard and placed it on a bulletin outside the classroom.

Castiel peered at the list in disbelief. "You put my name at the top."

Bobby huffed. "Congrats on being able to read, kid. You'll go far."

"I can't be section leader. It's not allowed," he almost pleaded.

"And what moron told you that?"

Castiel didn't reply, but Bobby seemed like he already knew exactly which moron had made that rule as he scowled at the list.

"You want some good advice, kid? Don't listen to Dean Winchester. I swear that boy will be the death of me—he gave you his 'I am a trumpet god' speech, didn't he?"

"Not exactly," Castiel mumbled but Bobby looked far from convinced.

"For the record, kid, that idjit doesn't know squat about the trumpet," he announced.

"But he said—" Castiel began, but Bobby waved his hand dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah, but I bet he didn't mention he's got an ego the size of Texas either."

Castiel looked at Bobby in astonishment and watched the other man shrug.

"Look, don't go thinkin' I'm a horrible person here. I can say that because unfortunately, me and the Winchesters are related," he admitted, "and those little shits never let me forget it."

While his words weren't exactly endearing, from the way the director's eyes lit up fondly, Castiel got the feeling he actually liked Dean and Sam quite a lot.

"I don't want to be section leader though."

"Exactly," Bobby said and tapped his pen on the clipboard. "With you at the helm, I might have an actual trumpet section this year instead of a bunch of marching egos. Who knows? Maybe someone will finally realize our anthem is 'Carry On My Wayward Son'..." he drifted off into thought.

A discreet cough from Castiel was enough to jerk Bobby back into the present however. "Look," he continued, leading Castiel back into the office and shoving him into a chair across from his desk, "officially I will never admit this, but the Lawrence High School Marching Band sucks. And I don't mean that in a self-deprecating false-modesty sort of way. I mean it in a if-we-were-any-worse-we'd-be-on-the-football-team sort of way. Probably isn't the most politically correct way to put it, but that doesn't make it any less true.

"So guess what? If someone comes along who can play an actual tune, I'm going to make him first chair. Unfortunately, kid, that's you. So my second piece of advice is to suck it up. Dean will get over it—eventually. Either that or he won't speak to you again, and if you ask me, that's not such a great loss."

A wicked smile stole across Bobby's face. "Or, better yet, maybe I'll just make him take lessons with you. This could be a better punishment than any detention I could assign that boy for all the trouble he causes."

Castiel wondered if he was going to be sick again. "And I don't get a choice?"

"Nope," Bobby said smugly and threw him out of the gym office.

* * *

Castiel stumbled his way back to the cabin to find his roommates engaged in what, judging from the yells and shouts he could hear almost a mile away, could only have been some sort of epic battle.

He was partially right; there did indeed seem to be a battle transpiring. It just didn't appear to involve weapons of any kind.

Instead, his roommates were hunched over one of the beds, yelling something about foul play.

"This is ridiculous! You can't do that, Ash!" Chuck cried, brandishing what must have been some sort of…staff…at the other boy.

"Can too. I'm dungeon master, _you're_ just an aspiring warlock," Ash said haughtily, his voice echoing from somewhere inside an actual metal helmet.

Castiel tried to slip inside the room without attracting attention but, with a cry of delight, Garth ran over and grabbed him by an elbow.

"I would like to nominate a tie-breaker," he said seriously.

Ash paused and gave them both a cryptic look. "Only if you're willing to give up a turn, elf-lord."

"Fine." Garth said and scratched at a plastic set of pointed ears he was wearing. "Here's the sitch, Cas: Ash has totally trashed the rulebook. I just picked a lock to get into a room in this haunted house we're investigating and he claims there's a first-class demon on the other side, which is, of course, totally unbelievable," he finished breathlessly.

"I don't understand. You are not in a haunted house and there is no demon present."

"See? He agrees with me," Garth said imperiously.

Ash rolled his eyes. "Nah, he just doesn't get it yet." His eyes lit up. "I know! Let's give Cas a character, guys!"

Disagreement instantly forgotten, Castiel was hauled to the center of their circle. He had no real idea of what they were talking about, but it seemed an initiation right of sorts.

"Foot soldier?" Chuck asked, sizing Castiel up with a critical eye.

"Nah, too boring," Ash countered.

"Ranger," Garth threw out.

"Doesn't really fit."

They paused and Ash snapped his fingers in the silence. "Got it." He turned toward Castiel, who was looking lost. "Castiel. That's an angel's name right?"

"Yes," Castiel answered hesitantly, not sure where he was leading. "The angel of Thursday, actually."

As he said it, the other boys' eyes lit up and they all nodded eagerly. Ash swiped Chuck's staff and grandly tapped Castiel with it on the shoulders in a badly executed imitation of a knighting.

"I hereby dub thee Castiel, Angel of the Lord, complete with ten hit points and a badass attitude."

"That seems rather blasphemous," Castiel pointed out.

"See, totally fits him," Ash said knowledgably.

"Still doesn't answer how we're gonna deal with your stupid demon, Ash," Chuck muttered.

All eyes turned toward Castiel. He had the feeling this was some sort of final test and he still had no clue what the rules were.

He cleared his throat anyway and answered. "Why would a demon be a problem, when I can simply exorcize it with the power of my grace?"

Ash clapped while Chuck and Garth looked stunned. "And that's how it's done, my friends."

* * *

Later that night, as they were all climbing into bed, Chuck finally asked, "Hey, Cas, how did your audition go anyway? Mine was terrible."

Castiel made a noncommittal noise but the other boys weren't having it. He sighed. "It went well I suppose. I made section leader."

Ash actually laughed. "Like I said, badass angel of the Lord. This should be good tomorrow."

* * *

**Reviews are much loved:)**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dean laughed a little too loudly as Bobby announced the audition results in the early morning light from behind the rail of his rusted cherry picker. The director's eyes flicked over to Dean throughout, gauging his reaction as he read Castiel's name.

"Good one, Bobby! Nice to see you have a sense of humor after all!" Dean called from the crowd and slapped the knee that wasn't holding his horn. The upperclassmen surrounding him chuckled in appreciation as Dean moved to take his place beside Sam and the other section leaders.

"Yeah, about that. Not kidding, Winchester," Bobby replied flatly, his face shadowed under the brim of a sweat stained baseball cap.

Dean grinned and laughed a couple more times before it dawned on him that Bobby was serious. His expression morphed into one of horror before settling on utter disbelief.

"No freaking way. C'mon, Bobby," he appealed as murmurs of amazement swept through the band. "Is this about your car again? I said I was sorry."

Bobby scowled at the reminder. "No, no, believe me, I'm still thinking of a way to make you pay for that," he answered gruffly. "These are just audition results, plain and simple. It's not personal."

Castiel felt Dean's narrowed green eyes zero in on his own and noted that, whether or not Bobby had intended it that way, the whole ordeal felt rather personal to _him_.

"Now just a second," Dean inserted, hands on his hips. "You actually _want_ trench coat puking kid as our leader? Are you for real?"

Castiel cringed; with his luck, that nickname was sure to stick and become yet another notable first impression to add to his resume of failed school experiences.

In a wave of movement, every head snapped his direction, and Castiel prayed fervently that he would somehow, spontaneously, sprout the wings Ash claimed his D&D character possessed and disappear on the spot. Unfortunately however, the marching gods must have been getting a kick out of his humiliation, because the prayer went unanswered and Castiel was left to wither under Dean's furious scrutiny. Thankfully, Bobby's voice cut through the giggles and whispers before he could actually die of embarrassment.

"Am I for real? Do I look like a freaking unicorn to you?" the director boomed and the echoes crackled of it through the megaphone. "Yes I'm for real, you idjit! Cas got the part because, unlike you, who has perfected the art of bragging about how great you are at trumpet, Cas can actually _play_ the trumpet."

Dean crossed his arms, the corners of his face tilted downward in a full pout. "You're telling me that matters more than my charming personality and winsome smile?" He smiled extra hard, teeth bared, as if to prove his point.

Bobby said nothing but the cherry picker whined as he lowered the derelict bucket to stand at eye level with the older boy. When he finally spoke, he carefully emphasized each syllable. "First of all," he said and held up a single finger, "that charming personality of yours is highly debatable. Second—and listen closely now—This. Is. A. Music. Class."

Dean pursed his lips and honestly looked like he was trying to understand what Bobby was saying.

"Lord save us," Bobby sighed. "Sam? A little help over here?"

Dean glanced back to his brother for confirmation that Bobby wasn't completely insane. Dressed in an electric blue windbreaker with high-top sneakers and standing in the midst of a bunch of giggling girls Castiel assumed comprised the flute section, Sam rolled his eyes and nodded curtly back in an unmistakable 'Of course you actually have to learn to play the trumpet, didn't I tell you so?' gesture.

"Seriously though, Bobby?" Dean said again in consternation, like he needed to hear it one final time.

"Like a heart attack, son. And, for the last time, it's Mr. Singer."

"Yeah, so not calling you that. Good try." It was a little hard to see, but Castiel thought Dean might have actually stomped his foot as he said it.

A triumphant grin spread across Bobby's face and he threw a sarcastic salute Dean's direction. "Stick and stones, Dean. By the way, enjoy last chair." He pressed a blinking button and the bucket began to climb upwards once more, leaving Dean to stand there stupidly, unable to think of a sufficient comeback.

"_You_ enjoy last chair!" he yelled after a moment as the band dispersed to assemble their instruments for the morning's rehearsal. Only Castiel was left to stare awkwardly at Dean and wonder whether he should say something.

However, before he could act, Sam, piccolo already in hand, shook his head and clapped Dean on the shoulder as he walked by. "Dude. Drop it. You're so embarrassing."

Dean hung his head, defeated, for all of about three seconds. Then, in one fluid motion, he swiped the piccolo from his brother's grip and tossed it down the field. "Hey, Sam!" he called when Sam cursed and stumbled after his instrument, "What's the range of a piccolo?"

Sam didn't reply, but it failed to stop Dean from shouting, "Twenty yards on a good day!"

Dean roared at his joke and Sam flipped him the bird. "Yep, I've totally still got it," he smirked to himself and popped his collar.

He turned around then to find Castiel still watching the proceedings. Eyebrows raised, his eyes raked over the younger boy and Castiel was almost positive that Dean was either checking him out at that moment or plotting ways to kill him.

However, Dean gave no indication on the matter either way and simply strolled past Castiel, trumpet slung over one shoulder. "This isn't over, you know," he said. "Prepare yourself for the full Dean Winchester experience, Castiel Novak."

Castiel shuddered and he couldn't tell if it was from nerves or an odd sense of anticipation.

Thus, as Ash would later retell it, began the epic war between Dean Winchester and an Angel of the Lord.

* * *

It started when Castiel hit a high C at the end of the opener. Dean's eyebrows almost shot out of his head and he gaped at the freshman.

"Do that again," he challenged and Castiel tipped his horn up to blast another ear-piercing note. A couple of appreciative wolf whistles from other members of the band followed the feat.

As Bobby had promised, the Lawrence High School Marching Band did indeed suck, and that was putting it mildly. It was probably something of a miracle that the majority of the band had managed to find the right end of their instrument to play into. In any case, it certainly explained the unholy sounds that rose from the field that morning as well as Dean's look of complete shock when Castiel breezed through the upper octaves.

"I don't suppose third time's a charm?" he asked weakly and pursed his lips in displeasure. Castiel rewarded himself with a small self-satisfied smirk.

However, while Castiel's superior range continued to grate on Dean's last nerve, Dean proved only too delighted to point out the flaws in his marching technique.

"For the last time," he yelled and pointed in exasperation, "that one is your left foot and that's your right."

"Right? That's left." Castiel gestured back at his own grass stained sneakers.

"Right. That's what I said."

"No, you clearly said left."

"Right, I did say left."

"You just said right again."

Dean threw his hands up. "This is pointless. Some section leader you are. Can you just try to copy me?"

It turned out that, no, Castiel couldn't copy him. He managed to trip over Dean instead and send both of them sprawling into the saxophone section. Dean made a rather comfortable landing pad though, Castiel noted from his position on top of the other boy's chest before Dean cursed and shoved him off.

Ash, Chuck and Garth weren't having much more luck than Castiel however. Garth dropped his trumpet repeatedly until its bell looked more like a crater than anything else, and Chuck appeared to be executing some sort of complicated skip rather than a high march step. After a couple hours of rehearsal in the sun, Dean looked like he wanted to kill them all and be done with it. He motioned for them to join him during the water break.

Not a little worried for his safety, Castiel slipped into the circle. Dean promptly began the meeting by taking a moment to flick each freshman on the side of the head. "Musical talent, my ass," he spat and shot a particularly meaningful glare Castiel's direction, "I may not be section leader currently, but I swear I will hunt every one of you down in cold blood if you ruin our chances against Cheyenne this year."

Garth raised his hand like he was back in third grade, fingers straining toward the sky, and Dean swatted him upside the head.

"Dude, are you seriously that uncool? Just spit it out."

"Who's Cheyenne?"

With a groan, Dean wiped the sweat off his forehead where it had beaded. Castiel wondered idly why he noticed things like that about Dean.

"Do I have to explain _everything_?" he sighed. "Look, Cheyenne is short for the Cheyenne Classical Academy of Music. Check out the other side of the lake," Dean said and pointed at several dark shapes that sat across the lake bordering Golden Bell's grounds.

"That's our rival camp on the other side. They do their marching band at the same time as us and both camps traditionally end with a "friendly" competition. They kick our butts every year and we never hear the end of it. It's also home to a bunch of assholes" he ended in a bitter tone, not explaining what he meant by that last comment.

"That doesn't sound very friendly to me," Castiel observed.

"Duh, Castiel. That's why I used quotation marks," Dean replied and repeated the motion.

"I don't understand that reference. And it's still just Cas."

Dean turned to the others. "Was he homeschooled?"

Ash slung an arm around Castiel's shoulders. "Don't go hatin' on my homeboy, D-man. He's just his own special kind of awesomesauce."

The older boy's eyes travelled over the four of them and he shook his head. "I give up. I don't speak freshman," he grumbled and flopped back into the grass.

Castiel looked back at the others. "Is Dean "okay"? Should I "ask" for help?"

Ash squeezed his shoulder in return and threw him a sympathetic smile as Bobby blew the whistle for rehearsal to resume.

* * *

Despite his concern over winning the end of camp competition, it was obvious Dean hadn't forgotten his grudge however when Castiel returned later that evening to find his cabin floor covered in a thick layer of sand, complete with a beach umbrella propped up in the middle of the room and party lights strung along the rafters.

"Uggg, there's even sand in my sleeping bag. That's just mean," Chuck whined, rolling the grains between his fingers in disgust. "You still set on being section leader, Cas?"

Ash stuffed a fistful of sand down Chuck's shirt. "Shut-up. Us freshman have to stick together. We support Cas."

Castiel shook the sand from his own sleeping bag with a scowl. "I didn't ask for this, but I'm not giving it up either. If Dean wants a fight, he'll get a fight. You don't give in to terrorists."

"Right you are," Ash chimed in. "I say this calls for a counterstrike."

Garth winced and said, "Before I inevitably end up assisting in this madness, I would just like to mention that we are courting total and absolute anarchy. Freshmen can't strike back at juniors—it would disrupt the Force or something."

Castiel and Ash didn't hear him; they were too busy giving each other identical calculating smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It took them three days to clear all the sand from the cabin. Bobby took one look at the mess, declared that they would all spend every spare moment cleaning it up, and assigned Dean detention without even inquiring who the culprit was. While the subsequent look on Dean's face was priceless, it still wasn't enough to satisfy Ash however. Thus, Castiel found himself in the middle of the woods at midnight two days later.

"Okay fellas," Ash whispered, barely able to contain his excitement, "Operation Revenge-of-the-Nerds is officially underway!"

"Ash, I feel I should inform you that I object to being labeled a nerd," Garth inserted as the crept through the dark campground.

Ash, ever the resourceful enthusiast, had insisted that they do what he was now calling a covert operation the 'right way'. Consequently, they were decked out in black. Chuck had produced an actual ski mask from God-knows-where and the others had all smeared mud from the lake under their eyes. Castiel felt sure he looked like an idiot, but, with a critical glance, Ash informed him he looked like a bamf. Whatever that was.

Ash smacked Garth on the back of the head. "Dude, you _are_ a nerd. Do you not even remember those puppets you keep in your closet back home? Don't bother to pretend you don't play with those things. Nerd, man, nerd."

Garth fell silent with a sigh and Church gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. They crept toward where the upperclassmen cabins lay, silent except for the crunch of gravel under their feet. Castiel fingered the set of loose metal bars he had brought in his pocket and wondered absently what he had gotten himself into when he agreed to wage war on Dean.

They arrived at a cabin with a peeling number three painted on the side. "You're sure this is it?" Chuck squeaked.

"Yup. Let's do this guys," Ash replied as they all steeled themselves for what they were about to do.

In the darkness, well away from the single flickering lamppost that feebly lit the cabin plaza, they slipped to the back door of the unsuspecting cabin. All the lights were off and a snore emanated from somewhere inside. It seemed likely that all the occupants were asleep and thus Ash slowly pulled the door handle.

"It's locked!" he hissed when the door failed to budge. "Who actually locks their doors at summer camp?"

"Well, if we had done it, we might not have ended up with an indoor beach," Garth pointed out unhelpfully.

Ash ignored him. "Crap. What are we supposed to do now?"

Castiel stepped forward with a set of lock picks dangling from his fingers. "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

"Cas, you have no idea how much I love you right now. How do you even know to do that?"

Castiel cleared his throat as he thought of his older brother, Gabriel. "I may or may not have a sibling who is an aspiring felon and he might or might not have attempted unsuccessfully to recruit me as his sidekick," he said as he inserted the right size pick into the keyhole and fidgeted with the mechanism inside.

"Not that unsuccessfully," Garth pointed out as a promising click sang through the night and the cabin door swung open.

After that it was all guesswork. Four lumpy sleeping bags adorned each of the four rickety beds and a heap of duffle bags were smashed into a cabin corner. Castiel wasn't sure how he knew that one particular lump was Dean, but he did. He smiled to himself—of course Dean was the source of the snoring. Not only obnoxious when awake, he did double-time during the night. Castiel couldn't help himself: He took a step closer. Then another and another.

It was only when Ash hissed at him from where he stood crouched over the duffels that Castiel realized he had actually crossed the room and now stood a hair's breadth away from where Dean slept. Something was definitely wrong with him where Dean was concerned—the very last thing he should want was to wake a sleeping dragon.

Despite the snores that shook his bedframe, Dean somehow managed to look peaceful while unconscious. That fact didn't exactly speak well for his waking hours but it was nevertheless hypnotizing to simply watch him breathe, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Castiel wondered what Dean dreamed of and imagined the other boy was busy bossing around a whole army of freshmen in his sleep.

A snap of Ash's fingers however jerked him back to the present and he realized he probably looked like a total creeper watching Dean sleep. Castiel looked around guiltily and hoped the other boys hadn't noticed. To his relief, Ash and Chuck were engrossed among the duffels. Garth was missing though and, in a quick search, Castiel found him standing by the lumps he supposed were Alistair and Crowley.

From what Castiel had seen, Alistair and Crowley were bad news. They pulled girl's pigtails, started small fires, cursed like sailors and punched anyone who looked too hard in their direction. They seemed to function as some kind of permanent body guards for Dean—he had rarely seen Dean without one or the both of them lurking behind. Therefore, Castiel figured Garth could only have a suicide wish when he caught him giving them mustaches and devil's horns in their sleep. With permanent marker.

Ash snapped his fingers again at the two of them though and waved what they had originally come for, shoving it inside his own backpack. With a final last look at peaceful Dean (Castiel sincerely doubted he would ever see that particular expression grace Dean's face again), he snuck back the way they had come, not bothering to relock the door.

"You got it then?" he asked rather redundantly once they were a safe distance away.

"Need you ask, young padawan?" Ash replied with a roll of his eyes. "Of course I got it—I'm awesome. And not just Dean's either. I grabbed a whole set. You know he had help creating our island paradise."

"And I remembered the labels," Garth added and raised his hand expectantly for a high-five. Still nervous about what they might have invoked, Castiel pulled himself together and returned the gesture regardless.

* * *

Dean awoke slowly and stretched in a contented sort of way. He had been having the best dream and he closed his eyes, trying to remember. Most of it eluded him, but a pair of vibrant blue eyes swam to mind. Blue eyes…black hair…his stomach sank. He had been dreaming of Castiel. Again.

He wasn't supposed to be dreaming of Castiel, he was supposed to get getting even with the twerp who had questioned his authority. Dean would make Castiel fix him a sandwich or die trying, dammit. He just needed to figure out how to stop dreaming about him first. Dean groaned into his pillow and punched the mattress. Maybe if he accidentally suffocated himself, he wouldn't have to look at the other boy later that day and remember exactly _how_ good the dream had been.

Alistair had heard his groan though and turned over with a knowing smirk. "Seriously Dean, if I could figure out the secret to having sex dreams every night, I would hardly be complaining. Who's the lucky girl? Guy?"

Dean flipped him off in reply and tried to erase all the mental images that popped into his head at the thought of sex with Castiel. He wondered again, probably for the millionth time, why he was friends with Alistair and Crowley. Sam had asked him the same thing and refused to share a cabin with them, opting instead to room with some of the other sophomores.

In the end, Dean supposed it was just easy to be friends with them, if friendship was really what it was. Left to themselves, Alistair and Crowley were really too stupid to get up to anything serious on their own. They were drummers after all, Dean thought with a snort. Besides, when Dean had transferred to Lawrence last year, they were the ones who automatically understood what he had gone through and what Michael had done.

Dean shuddered and pushed away that last thought to the back of his mind. He never thought about Michael if he could help it.

Ultimately though, Alistair and Crowley needed direction and he was, of course, thrilled to provide it. Their partnership left Dean free to think up the really great ideas and Alistair and Crowley to haul the sand. And, while he objected to serving his detention in trumpet tutoring with Castiel on principle, he couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down his spine at the thought.

Content, Dean turned back over and burrowed further into his sleeping bag, determined to catch a few more minutes of sleep before Bobby inevitably began pounding on the cabin door. For some odd reason, he didn't seem to trust Dean to show up on time. However, just as he shut his eyes, a wisp of a tune floated in through the open window. Someone was playing Reveille, the morning wake-up call. On a trumpet. And it wasn't him.

Sleep instantly forgotten, Dean scrambled into a pair of shorts, not bothering with a shirt, and stumbled out the door with Alistair and Crowley trailing behind. The morning air was crisp with the smell of pine and he shivered a little as he ran and wished he had worn shoes. The three of them fumbled awkwardly down a short gravel path that led to the main camp plaza.

As Dean burst into the plaza, a familiar mane of messy black hair attached to a silver trumpet greeted him. Castiel was immediately aware of the intrusion and his blue eyes latched onto Dean's defiantly, but he didn't stop playing. He finished the whole tune, ending with a resonant flair and never once broke eye contact.

Other sleepy campers stumbled into the clearing as he finished but Dean barely noticed. He was going to win the stupid staring contest. Besides, Castiel's eyes were an intriguing shade of blue.

Dean felt a flash of satisfaction when Castiel was the first to look away. The other boy's eyes flicked to the rusted flagpole that teetered in the center of the plaza and stood directly in front of the main lodge.

Bobby's voice crackled through the crowd just then. "Anyone care to explain what the hell is going on here?" he grumbled in a resigned sort of way like no matter how long he taught, he would never understand teenagers.

Castiel looked down and shrugged. "I thought it might be a nice way to start the day, sir," he said demurely. "It saves you the trouble of waking everybody up yourself."

Bobbly looked like he was about to save something sarcastic in reply, like how it wasn't Castiel's job to monitor that sort of thing, or just swear up a storm, but a breeze blew by suddenly and an unusual flapping noise sounded from above. Everyone automatically looked up.

Instead of the American flag, three pairs of boxer shorts hung suspended in the breeze. Horrified, Dean realized they had all been carefully labeled in huge black letters. Cabin number three's underwear waved merrily in front of the entire camp and Dean's heart patterned boxers flagged at the end.

Bobby crossed his arms and snorted. "Actually, you're right, Castiel, this is quite a nice way to wake up," he said, a grin turning up at the corners of his mouth as he beheld the displayed undergarments. "You're on wake-up duty from now on, kid."

Castiel actually had the audacity to wink in Dean's direction. Dean seriously needed to have a talk with Bobby about where his uncle's loyalties lay.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sam found Castiel after the third time he tripped over Dean's well-placed foot that morning in rehearsal. At the rate he was going, thanks to Dean, he was swiftly becoming better at falling than marching.

Sam ran up, twirling his piccolo in one hand. He looked Castiel straight in the eye and addressed him very formally. Or at least as formal as he could get wearing a fuchsia baseball cap.

"Cas," he said with a completely straight face, "I am about to let you in on a secret I have never told another soul. Can I trust you?" Castiel nodded, not sure what he had done to gain Sam's confidence.

The younger Winchester looked covertly to both sides like he was afraid of being overheard. However, the closest band members were only Ash and Chuck, crouched twenty feet away, using their break to blow fart sounds through thick strands of field grass, much to the disgust of the girls nearby.

Sam grasped his shoulder. "Listen well because I'm only going to say this once. There's a simple way to get Dean to do whatever you want. Now," he cautioned," you have to use it sparingly, for really important stuff. Otherwise we run the risk of Dean catching on. But, if you really need something, and Dean's being a pig about it—well, more than usual I mean—watch this."

He waved across the field to where Dean lay stretched under a couple of trees with Alistair and Crowley and called his brother's name. Castiel noted with no small satisfaction that other two boys still sported hand-drawn handlebar mustaches and resolved to buy Garth as many permanent markers as he wanted.

"Why are you telling me this anyway?" he whispered, pulling at Sam's sleeve in a frantic motion as Dean sauntered over to them. The morning's antics had done nothing ease the older boy's swollen ego obviously.

Sam looked thoughtful. "I don't know actually," he said at last, wiping the sweat from his brow. "You're just kind of good for each other I guess. Not many people would risk putting Dean in his place like you did."

Castiel was about to reply that he and Dean were good for each other in so much as a match and firewood were good for starting a forest fire, but Sam interrupted again.

"I know Dean seems like a jerk sometimes, but he had kind of rough time if things last year. For some reason that's beyond me, you seem to bring out a side of Dean that I thought might have disappeared."

Castiel wanted to ask what Sam meant and how anyone could possibly miss the side of Dean that tripped people in the middle of marching rehearsals, but Dean arrived at that moment, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion at the sight of Sam and Castiel standing together.

"And how can I help you ladies exactly?" He lifted the rim of his sunglasses to better peer at them.

Sam remained unfazed by the sarcasm. "Dean, can I borrow the Impala next Friday night to take Jessica Moore out?"

"Hell no you can't touch my baby. The sun must be getting to you," Dean replied without hesitation and flipped Sam's baseball cap off his head.

Sam, sporting a rather incredible new case of hat hair, pretended to look thoughtful instead of annoyed. "I could play you in rock-paper-scissors for it. If I lose, I'll clean her instead."

Dean just laughed. "Yeah, your loss, Sammy," he said and threw out a fist.

"We'll see."

Dean walked away thirty seconds later, shoulders slumped and wearing a peeved expression. Sam winked at Castiel. "He chooses scissors every time," he said smugly. Sam patted him on the shoulder and headed back to the flute section, leaving Castiel with the feeling he had just made a new friend.

Dean continued to trip him, but Sam's secret burned like a flame of hope inside.

* * *

Marching rehearsals were grueling. Slowly Castiel learned that a single show was generally comprised of three numbers—an opener, ballad and a closer—and each number contained a series of sets, or points he had to hit sequentially on the field as he played his memorized music.

Castiel had no interest in football. He had no interest in football fields. Therefore, finding each mark he had to hit was about as confusing as the rules to Dungeons and Dragons. All the patches of grass looked the same to him and it was with complete amazement that he watched Dean stride purposefully to his "spot".

After a few rehearsals and several less than friendly comments from Bobby about his aim, Castiel discovered that if he stayed about four feet to Dean's left, he could hit most of his marks. Therefore, he ended up spending quite a bit of time watching the other boy.

The funny thing was that Dean was almost always watching him too. He would look away instantly, almost as if he had been merely scanning the field, but in the second where their gaze met, Castiel knew different. He tried to shrug it off as an oddity and ignore it, but it was like Dean's stare had become this electric buzz under his skin or an itch he couldn't scratch and he found himself drawn to it instinctively.

He was quite relieved therefore when Bobby called a sudden stop to the rehearsal with a sharp blow on his whistle. "You! Idjit!" he called and pointed to the back half of the field from his perch on the cherry picker. A sophomore trombone player stepped forward, a guilty expression etched on his face.

"No," Bobby dismissed him with a wave of his hand, "You are an idjit, yes, but I meant that other one." He aimed the megaphone directly at Garth, who immediately froze. Castiel had the fleeting impression of a stone statue.

"Can he see me if I'm not moving?" Garth hissed through his teeth.

It was Dean who answered with a barking laugh. "Dude, you're confusing real life with Jurassic Park. Sure, Bobby's breath smells bad, but he's no t-rex."

Wide-eyed, Garth looked to Castiel for confirmation. Castiel shrugged. "Bobby looks like he's waiting for an answer. You might want to do something about that."

"Uhh, yes? Mr. Singer?" Garth squeaked.

"Do you like playing the trumpet?" Bobby asked, in such a calm fashion that it automatically gave Castiel goosebumps.

"Umm, I think so? Yes?" Garth cringed, evidently hoping he'd given the correct answer.

"Then, for the love of all that's holy, would you stop goddamn drifting into the clarinet section?" Bobby barked and Garth nearly jumped out of his sneakers.

Dean's snicker caught the director's attention. "And you! Winchester! Don't forget you have trumpet tutoring tonight." Dean went silent, sobered instantly.

And thus, in the heat, rehearsal continued.

* * *

"We need to talk."

"I'm not talking to you, Winchester. You heard me in rehearsal today."

"But we're family! You can't assign detention to family! It's practically un-American."

"Viva Mexico then."

"Your sense of humor sucks."

"That has absolutely no relevance on your detention status."

"Your present last Christmas sucked."

"Keep it coming, Dean. Letting out repressed emotion is good for you I hear."

"…"

"Good try, but only Sam can pull off that particular pout."

"Fine. I'll fix your car."

"You _broke_ my car."

"But I can still fix it…"

"As tempting as that sounds, I'll pass."

"So what you're saying is that I actually have to go to detention tonight?"

"Ahh, and we've finally come full circle. Good chat, Dean. Getting a lot accomplished with you as usual."

"Thanks for nothing, Uncle Bobby."

"Love you too, son. You might even end up liking Casti—I mean, tutoring."

"Okay, I'm leaving now. In five, four, three—changed your mind? Anything? Two…I'm serious here…I'm exiting the door….I'm shutting the door…one...one half, one quarter…"

Bobby shut the door for him. It just seemed easier.

* * *

Castiel checked his watch for the third time: Dean was late. He sighed, wondering why he was surprised. Determined not to dwell on it however, he picked his horn up and ran through a piece he had learned earlier that spring. It had this one tricky section of slurred sixteenth notes…

"There's no need to show off you know," a familiar voice drawled from behind.

Castiel jumped and almost lost hold of his instrument. "It wasn't showing off," he shot back, instantly on guard, "I figured you weren't coming."

"What? And miss all this?" Dean spread his arms around the glory that was a tiny supply closet turned makeshift practice room. Bobby claimed that the danger of potentially knocking over a broom while you practiced built character. Castiel guessed that was probably a fancy way of saying he was a cheapskate.

He remembered Sam's display earlier in the day though and took a risk. "What do you say about calling a truce, at least for tonight?"

Dean assessed the supply-laden walls surrounding them. "Are you sure you haven't rigged my underwear to the mop handles?"

Castiel bit his lip. "I can't speak for the other guys, but I promise you're safe from me."

Dean didn't reply and merely fidgeted with his trumpet case. Castiel was beginning to feel desperate. "Look, I'll play you in rock-paper-scissors for it."

And thus, an unsteady truce was born.

It turned out that Dean wasn't actually terrible at trumpet when it came down to it. He worked the exercises Castiel put in front of him without much difficulty. After the third scale pattern Dean sailed through, Castiel set his horn down and stared at the other boy with a frown.

"What?" Dean paused as well.

"You are not as terrible as you've led Bobby to believe. Care to explain?"

Dean made no effort to quash the grin that spread across his face. "Eh, guess I'm just a fast learner," he winked, "and I might or might not be trying to impress you. I can't let you go around thinking all juniors are idiots. Is it working?" Dean looked so earnest that Castiel couldn't help smiling in return.

"Absolutely not."

"What if I said you were an awesome teacher?"

"I would have to inform you that you are clearly trying to get on my good side in order to conclude our session early."

"And what if I said I never wanted it to end?" He batted his eyelashes.

"I would tell you that you are a liar, Dean Winchester."

"Aww, I love you too, Mr. Novak."

Castiel wondered for a brief instant if they were flirting. He shook his head. No, Dean had declared him the enemy. The temporary truce was therefore only bittersweet. While it made their current lesson much easier, it also made Castiel think that if events had played out differently, he and Dean might have been friends. Good friends even.

"Earth to Castiel! You still with me, man?"

Castiel shook himself. "Yes, yes of course. Why don't we move on to duets?"

When the rusted bell chimed the eight o'clock hour across the campground, Dean stood up and stretched. "Well, thanks for an pretty decent lesson I guess. You know, it's actually kind of satisfying to be able to play Carry On My Wayward Son. Who'd have thought?"

"Who indeed?" Castiel joked back, relaxed.

Dean took a long last look at the other boy and said, "So I guess that's it then. Truce over." Surprisingly, he didn't look as thrilled as Castiel had expected.

"It doesn't have to be over."

The corner of Dean's mouth turned up and he said almost wistfully, "Yeah, it does. Good things never last. I'll catch ya tomorrow, Castiel." He walked through the door.

Castiel stood up. "It's just Cas!" he yelled and promptly tripped over his sneakers, which had been somehow tied together when he wasn't watching. He cursed Dean Winchester and his perfect ass from where he lay, cheek smashed against the cold tile of the supply closet. As if to complete the picture, a broom fell on him.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Castiel rubbed a shin as he exited the old gym. The whole tripping-in-marching-band-camp thing was getting old. Night had fallen while he stayed later to practice on his own and a solitary pond of yellow light was all that illuminated the crusty old building. It was almost curfew and Castiel moved quickly along the dusty path, not wanting to be caught by Bobby or the other adult staff after hours.

He reflected on the lesson he had given Dean. The other boy had mastered everything in the lesson with ease, almost as if he already knew it. Even with Dean's cocky reassurances, no one learned that fast.

Castiel was so caught up in his line of thought he didn't see Alistair and Crowley until it was too late. A grimy hand slapped over his mouth before he could protest and his arms were pinned behind his back.

"Splendid night isn't it, love?" a rough Cockney accent growled into his ear. "How would you feel about a late night swim in the lake? I hear the temperature is just perfect this time of year."

Castiel let them know in no uncertain terms what exactly he thought of their plan, but the large palm over his mouth swallowed his curses.

"Well, I don't know about you, Alistair, but that sounds like the lad's quite excited to me."

The other boy leaned in, eyes almost black in the shadows. "Well who wouldn't be?"

Castiel kicked and struggled, but he had always been on the slender side and the two of them were like boulders in comparison. He found himself slung unceremoniously over one of Crowley's shoulders and hauled in the direction of the lake.

A shout from the road above however caught Alistair and Crowley's attention. Someone had seen them dragging him away and was going to put a stop to it. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief—he was saved.

"Guys?" a familiar voice inquired though and Castiel's hopes sank. Life was about to get very wet and cold.

"Dean, lovely of you to join us!" Crowley called to the other boy, who hustled down the path toward them at an impressive speed. "We got you a present, darling. Caught this fish leaving the gym and figured we'd throw little Castiel overboard here to teach him a lesson about respecting his elders." They had reached the dock now and the black water of the lake drifted sluggishly below the warped boards.

Castiel had originally supposed Dean was in on the whole prank, but the green-eyed boy seemed genuinely surprised to find that Castiel was their victim and a myriad of emotions flashed across his face.

"Is this really necessary, guys? It's almost curfew."

"And when has that ever stopped you, Winchester?" Alistair accused.

Dean looked at a loss for an instant before he adopted a calculating expression. "True," he said like he was taking special care with how he phrased the next bit, "but why risk getting caught? Let's face it, I've already accrued enough detention to last me until I graduate."

Alistair's response was to clamp his hand tighter across Castiel's mouth. "Problem already solved, man. Castiel isn't going to tell anyone unless he wants this special occasion to become a nightly occurrence." His fingernails dug in to Castiel's cheeks as he said it. Castiel considered biting him.

Dean still looked unconvinced though and in that moment, Castiel realized Dean didn't want him thrown into the lake. For some reason, that tiny fact thrilled him. Dean opened his mouth to say something, possibly in Castiel's defense, but never got the chance—two flashlight beams shone on the road above the ramp that led to the dock.

"Someone's coming," Crowley hissed. "Quick—get it over with!" And, just like that, without any warning or pomp and circumstance, Castiel was abruptly dumped into the water as Alistair and Crowley ran to hide.

He gasped as he hit the lake; it felt like the water was just shy of being frozen. For one terrible second, as a million icy needles pricked his skin, he couldn't move his chest to take that first heaving breath. However, just as he began to wonder whether he was going to drown, he felt his chest finally shudder and expand. He took a heaving gasp of air and kicked wildly, trying to keep his head above the surface. His shoes, now soggy weights, pulled him down into the black waters and he wasted no time kicking them off. Free, he was able to take a couple hesitant strokes back toward the dock.

Years of swimming lessons and surviving his brother's chicken fights came in handy: He was a strong swimmer. Castiel wiped the chilly water from his eyes as a whispered voice floated to him from above.

"Castiel? Cas?" Dean hissed in a panicked whisper, forgetting to use his full name even. "You're scaring the shit outta me, man. Cas? Answer me, godammit!"

As his eyes adjusted, Castiel could see Dean crouched by the dock's edge, lit by only the pale moonlight. Dean peered into the depths of the lake, scanning the water frantically, fingers gripped tight on the edge of the wood. His gaze glanced over where Castiel treaded water in the shadows cast by the long beams of the pier. Dean couldn't see him and Castiel's brain spun into overdrive.

He almost decided not to do it, but it was really too good of an opportunity to pass up. The truce was over after all and at this rate, Dean wouldn't even know what had hit him. The dock was fairly low in relation to the water—if he just pushed and reached for it—Dean's hand was so close. Castiel gathered his courage and in one mighty surge of energy, drove himself up to pull Dean in.

As he had guessed, he caught the other boy completely unaware and, with a shriek Dean would probably deny ever happened but was a magical, musical sound to Castiel's ears, pulled the would-be section leader into the lake as well. A profoundly satisfying splash echoed throughout the area, but Bobby and his crew had apparently moved on in their rounds because no one came to investigate. Mission accomplished, Castiel immediately struck a line toward the shore side, but it was only as his feet touched on solid ground that he realized Dean hadn't followed.

He spun around. Dean was thrashing behind him, still near the dock. Castiel choked on a mouthful of water in surprise—the idiot couldn't swim. _Of course _he couldn't swim, it was just Castiel's luck.

Without a plan or a clue what to do, Castiel splashed back toward the other boy, swimming faster than he ever thought he could. Panic apparently made him more athletic, he thought detachedly. The water parted before him as if it were only too eager to get out his way.

He reached Dean's side and green eyes locked on blue. Then, Dean's head sank beneath the waves. Castiel's first instinct was to panic and grab any part of the boy he could reach. However, that very action would probably cause Dean to drag him down into the depths as well.

So instead of doing the thing every cell in his body was screaming for, he forced himself to take a deep breath. Next, as quick as he was able, he swam behind Dean, ducking under the water for a brief moment to grab the other boy by the armpits. He was prepared for Dean to put up a fight and even be smacked by a mass of flailing limbs, but Dean was limp. Castiel kicked harder, a new edge to his panic.

Their combined weight was heavy and Castiel felt sure they would sink more than once, but he eventually felt the gravel of the lakebed underneath his feet and dragged Dean up the sandy shoreline, one hard-earned step at a time. When his strength ran out, he dropped Dean onto mostly solid land and leaned over him, listening carefully. Time, or perhaps even the world, paused as he waited to see if Dean would take that first breath.

Dean's subsequent cough was therefore the most beautiful sound Castiel had ever heard. He had enough sense though to push the other boy onto his side as Dean proceeded to spit up what seemed like half the lake. As his initial panic started to abate, it occurred to him that he should be furious.

"You might have mentioned you couldn't swim," he said more harshly than he had intended as Dean hacked more lake water onto the sand.

Dean, of course, didn't answer unless the renewed round of coughing counted as an apology.

"Or, we could have just avoided a prank war to begin with. Prank wars are probably a serious violation of Bobby's 'don't be an asshole' rule." Castiel was talking mostly to himself, but he did notice that Dean seemed to have quieted down a little in the interim and was struggling to sit up. With a sigh, he reached over to help him, slinging one arm across Dean's shoulders in a sort of half hug. Dean groaned as he managed a sitting position and hung his head between his knees.

He coughed again and croaked, "Didn't know I was going to be joining you—"

"What?"

"Or I might have mentioned the non-swimming thing. I'm really glad I'm not dead right now," he finished weakly and Castiel felt a wave of guilt crash over him. Belatedly, he realized he still had his arm around Dean's shoulders.

"I'm truly sorry, Dean," he said simply. "I'm just angry because you scared me. My bad? Is that how you say it?"

Dean chuckled hoarsely and spat out some remaining water in the process. "Yeah, your bad. Your bad big time. I'm sorry too though, Cas," he added after a pause.

"Cas?" His nickname seemed to be the only thing Castiel could latch onto because the idea of Dean apologizing for anything was absolutely ludicrous.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and sent drops of water flying over the both of them. "Sometimes I think that if I weren't such a dick, we could have been friends. Do you ever think that?"

"You called me Cas," was all Castiel managed to stutter in reply.

Dean chucked again. "Dude, I do actually pay attention sometimes," he said, a ghost of a smile creeping over his face. "I just happen to think that Castiel is too great of name to shorten. Kind of does the whole thing an injustice."

"Oh." When he said it like that, it didn't seem so bad. "You might have mentioned that earlier as well."

"Communication isn't exactly my strong suit."

"Obviously."

Dean was now shivering from the chill of the night air on his soaked clothes and Castiel considered moving them both indoors. Dean showed no inclination to leave though however, so Castiel settled for scooting a little closer and wrapping his arm a little bit tighter around Dean's shoulders. At that distance he could smell Dean's particular scent and had an unexpectedly odd desire to bury his nose against the other boy's neck.

"I'm not normally such a jerk you know. Well, Sam might say different, but I'm really not. Or I didn't used to be at least. There's just something about you, Cas…" he trailed off.

"I suppose it has something to do with me being section leader," Castiel said with only a little bitterness and felt suddenly uncomfortable. It was one thing to sit there with his arm around a guy who was recovering from a near drowning but it was another thing entirely to just sit there with his arm around another guy. He started to remove his arm.

Dean shook his head. "Nah, that's not why. To tell you truth, I'm over the whole section leader thing," he confessed to Castiel's incredulous look. "Been there, done that, you know? I think I thought I wanted it more than I actually did, kind of like it was expected of me or something."

He gave Castiel a wry look, his eyes reflecting in the moonlight. "Maybe I've just been a jerk cause I like you."

Castiel felt his jaw drop and a rushing sound fill his ears. "You like me? No you don't," he corrected himself automatically. It was impossible. He and Dean were at war.

"Surprise? Dude, I had a near-death experience. I think I'm allowed to be a little in-the-moment here. I mean, what's not to like?" he continued all in one breath, "You're smart, good at trumpet, you don't take any crap from anybody and, you know, it's not like you're bad on the eyes…"

Castiel was amazed. Dean _didn't_ hate him after all. "So you mean you think we should be friends or something?"

"Yeah, or something."

"What's your favorite color then?"

"What? Way to be random. I was trying to be serious here."

"If we're going to be friends, I think I need a little more information about you than the fact that you think you're a trumpet god."

Dean sighed and lay down on the sand so he was staring up at the clear night sky. "This is stupid. Fine. I guess I like black cause it's the color of my baby. What's your favorite band?"

And that's how it went for hours. Castiel's clothes were nearly dry by the time Dean finally rolled over to face him, a twinkle in his eyes. "By the way, thanks for rescuing me back there. And, of course, for saving this devilishly handsome face."

Castiel snorted. "I'll pretend you didn't just say that last sentence. You're welcome though. Sorry for almost drowning you in the first place."

Dean shrugged. "Well, if it hadn't happened, I would never have discovered that you only eat Oreo flavored ice cream on Tuesdays and that would have been a real tragedy."

"Dean, I don't think you know the definition of a tragedy."

"Well, I'll promise to look it up in the dictionary if you'll promise to look up sarcasm."

"What?"

"My point exactly."

They were silent for a moment before Castiel asked, "So, friends then, huh?"

"Sure," Dean said and smiled to himself.

Before Castiel knew what was happening, or whether he should even respond, Dean leaned over a pressed a quick chaste kiss to his lips. "See you around, Cas," he whispered.

They were silent for a moment and Castiel thought that maybe Dean was going to run, but the other boy took another long look at him instead. "Screw it. I need another one." His lips ghosted across Castiel's once more before he finally scrambled to his feet.

Dean threw him a cheeky salute and raced back in the direction of his cabin while Castiel touched his own lips in wonderment and tried to figure out what exactly had just happened.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for all the feedback from last chapter! Seriously, you guys are the only reason I'm finishing this. After two weeks of running my own band camp, if I hear one more out of tune piccolo, I may die. Not kidding. **

**But, on with the story! **

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Dean slid into the seat across from Castiel the next morning and Ash choked on his breakfast burrito, spraying eggs across the table.

"Heya Cas," Dean said in a manner that was entirely too cheerful for the early hour. "You get any sleep last night? I didn't."

Egg spewed once more from Ash's gaping mouth. "Dude!" he accused, turning toward Castiel. "This—_Dean_—is the reason you missed out on our D&D extravaganza night? What the hell?" His burrito hung forgotten from one hand.

"You going to eat that?" Dean asked, hopeful, as if Ash wasn't in the middle of some sort of epic fit.

Ash pointed a finger in his face. "_You_. You don't talk." Dean merely smirked at Castiel, shrugged his assent and turned his attention to the remaining half of his own breakfast.

"Seriously, Cas, are you like consorting with the enemy or something?"

"The enemy?"

"Don't play stupid. _Dean_," he hissed, covertly indicating the other boy with a tilt of his head.

"I can still hear you, man," Dean injected, mouth half filled with sausage.

Castiel found himself at a loss. He wasn't sure how to explain what had happened the previous night. Heck, he wasn't even sure _what_ had happened. All he knew was that Dean had nearly drowned and that made having a prank war seem sort of insignificant in comparison. It was like thinking he was going to win a game of poker with a pair of aces only to find out that someone had been holding a royal flush all along.

Dean saved him from answering though. "Cool your jets, Mullet-man," he said as Ash's face turned several degrees of red, "We called a truce. Castiel won the prank war. I gave up." He said it all so casually, he might have been talking about the type of toothpaste he had used that morning.

"And that's it? Now you're what, best mates?"

"There is a fine line between love and hate, my friend. The chicks in Sammy's girl movies were right after all," Dean said sagely.

Ash flicked a piece of egg his way. "So which is it then, love or hate?"

Dean looked like he was about to reply but Castiel cut him off, afraid of the answer. "We're just—we decided to be—we're friends," he ended lamely. He conveniently omitted the part about where Dean had kissed him. Twice. Dean jerked up from his tray, obvious disappointment etched on his face.

Ash mulled the statement over. "How did we win the prank war exactly?" he asked Dean suspiciously.

"Cas threw me into the lake. Well, that and I'd rather have a choice in who sees my underwear. No more of this flagpole business." Castiel blushed at the implications behind that declaration and twisted his hands uneasily in his lap.

Ash seemed satisfied with Dean's answer though. "So does this mean you'll be nice to us now? No more comments about my two left feet?" he asked.

"Ha ha. In your dreams, fresh-meat. I've still got an upperclassmen obligation to make your life miserable," Dean replied smoothly without pause.

Ash threw up his hands in defeat. "Great. Peachy. The prank war is over and my life still sucks."

Dean pointed his fork at Ash. "How about I get to refer to you as Mullet-man and tell people your hair has superpowers and we'll call it even?" Ash sighed resignedly in response, picked up his try and walked over to where Chuck and Garth had just sat down.

Castiel scowled. "I thought you said you weren't a jerk."

Dean laughed. "I'm still me, man. Just cause I said that doesn't mean I'm going to go all sleepover-braid-each-other's-hair on you. But seriously, I just said that stuff cause your dungeon master over there is hilarious when he's mad. As far as I'm actually concerned, he totally passed initiation and we're cool."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "By the way, I was under the impression that our war ended in a draw. I don't believe pulling you into the lake should count as winning since your near drowning was decidedly lacking in humor."

Dean grinned into his hash browns. "Geez Cas, who says shit like 'decidedly lacking in humor'? Besides," he continued before Castiel could think of a clever retort, "ties are wimpy. If we don't have a clear winner, I might be tempted to do something about it." His eyes glinted wickedly at the thought and he leaned ever so slightly into Castiel's personal space. Castiel couldn't help remembering suddenly what it had felt like to kiss him.

"Good thing I won then."

Dean licked his lips. "Yeah, good thing."

Feeling like something momentous was about to happen, Castiel leaned away instead and changed the subject. "Ahh, so where is your bodyguard this morning anyway?"

Dean raised his eyebrows, like he knew what Castiel had done, but looked perfunctorily around the cafeteria anyway. "Huh. Dunno. They're probably still hiding in some bush away from Bobby's flashlight," he joked as Castiel scowled.

"They threw me in a lake."

"Strangely enough, I totally remember that." Dean cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable at the thought. "Look, Cas, I don't know where they are, but I promise you they won't be bothering us any time soon. I'll make sure of it." For once, Dean Winchester managed to look completely earnest.

Castiel felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. "Thank you, Dean."

"Dude. No problem." Dean had finished his breakfast and was now pushing the remnants of his ketchup all over his tray into a gooey mess. Castiel glanced down at his untouched breakfast burrito and silently passed it across the table to Dean like some sort of weird peace offering.

"Take it. You're still hungry."

Dean eyed the burrito. "You sure, Castiel?" he asked using his full name, "You can't take this sort of decision back," he stated vaguely, like he was referencing something much bigger than breakfast that morning.

Castiel felt his eyebrows furrow in confusion. "Of course I'm sure. I'm not hungry."

Dean reached over and took the burrito with an air of triumph. "You do realize," he said as he took an obnoxiously large bite, "you just gave me a sandwich, right? Burritos totally count."

With a sinking feeling, Castiel recalled the ridiculous challenge Dean had created for himself. "What do you mean?"

"Our bet? From the first day of camp?" Dean grinned and Castiel could see bits of sausage sticking to his teeth. "Aww, Cas, it's a great story, let me tell it to you in detail while I finish this fantastic sandwich…"

Castiel banged his head on the table for the rest of breakfast as Dean recounted the story and slid his feet over Castiel's underneath the table.

* * *

"What the hell is this?" Dean peered at what appeared to be some sort of list Sam had thrust in his face.

"A scavenger hunt," Sam said authoritatively and passed one to Castiel as well. Sam had called everyone to the main plaza late that afternoon during the free time between dinner and curfew. People lounged around curiously as the brothers argued.

"Believe it or not, Sammy, I _can_ read. I mean, who's stupid idea was this?"

Sam bristled. "As band president, I'm in charge of official band bonding and the official band camp challenge and that means that—"

Dean yawned. "You can stop right there. I'm bored already." Castiel ribbed Dean in the side and the older boy grimaced. "Jeez, Cas, don't tell me you're excited about Sam's nerd fest too."

"I like Sam," Castiel said as an explanation and shrugged.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder in return. "Right back atcha, Cas. Now," he continued, business-like once more, "We'll have to divide into teams—"

"I choose Castiel," Dean interrupted.

"—and I already chose Cas, sorry," Sam finished.

"What?"

Sam smirked at Dean and grabbed a reluctant Castiel by the elbow. "Sorry, Dean. Guess you'll just have find someone else." He addressed the crowd. "Find a partner, guys, and get started on your list! Bobby says that the first team to finish the hunt gets to skip bathroom cleaning duty." People began dividing up rapidly.

Castiel and Dean shared a look as everyone else began to team up, but there was really nothing either one of them could do. Castiel couldn't figure out why he was simultaneously disappointed and irrationally annoyed at Sam. He and Dean had officially been friends for only a day yet he wished he had been paired with Dean instead. It didn't help matters that a cute sophomore girl named Lisa asked Dean to be her partner.

Before Castiel could do more than glare at the offending girl however, Sam hauled him over to a couple of trees and held up their list.

"What are you doing, Sam?" he asked, straight to the point.

Sam had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Hey, sorry about back there. I'm really thrilled you two aren't fighting anymore, really. But Dean, whether through charm or because he's a stinking cheater, wins the band challenge every year and I want this year to finally be different. I mean, let's face it, next to me you're the smartest guy here so between the two of us we should win this easy."

"Nice to know you're not entirely excluded from the curse of the Winchester ego," Castiel commented and Sam blushed.

"So does that mean you'll help me then, Cas?" he asked anyway.

"Well, I'd hate to give Dean another reason to brag…" Castiel sighed as Sam grinned from ear to ear and offered his new teammate a handshake.

"Okay, so here's the list of the things we have to do," Sam said and gave the paper to Castiel. Most of the items on the scavenger hunt were predictable; they had to borrow a set of silverware from the cafeteria, find and high-five all the section leaders, jump from one cabin to another inside a sleeping bag and eat a whole tub of ice cream while singing the national anthem. Others, however, proved more challenging.

"We have to steal one of Bobby's sweaty baseball caps?" Castiel said and frowned. "Not only is that disgusting but I'm pretty sure he only owns the one and never takes it off."

Sam smiled a little guiltily and produced a cap from his knapsack. "That's why I stole one from Bobby's house back home and brought it to camp."

Castiel was reproachful. "I believe that is called cheating."

"I helped write the list! It's not my fault I knew! Besides, Dean'll never get one of these babies—he's on Bobby's bad list at the moment."

Sam's enthusiasm was catching. "Fine. But we do the others the right way," he said and the other boy nodded eagerly.

Thus Castiel found himself balancing an egg on a spoon while he danced the Cha-cha Slide, hauling Sam piggyback style across the marching field, asking upperclassmen to borrow their valve oil and skipping every third step. His only comfort was that the other band members were doing equally ridiculous things. And, if his eyes travelled to where Dean and Lisa were laughing as they tossed popcorn into each other's mouths, he told himself it was just because he wanted to stay in the lead.

It was a close race though. Several teams were with them step for step and, much to Sam's astonishment, Dean and Lisa somehow incredibly managed to procure Bobby's favorite nasty baseball cap. Sam pulled Castiel aside.

"We're not going to win at this rate," he said urgently and placed both hands on Castiel's shoulders for emphasis. "We gotta go for the bonus point."

Points were collected in various ways. Each completed item on the list was worth a point and there were additional points to be gained for how long it took to complete the entire list. Sam and Castiel still had one task left to go while Dean and Lisa had already crossed the finish line.

Castiel reexamined the scavenger sheet. Underneath the original tasks was an extra entry written in italics.

_Bonus: Collect a band shirt or other logo item from the Cheyenne School of the Performing Arts. (10 points)_

"But that's a joke, right? No one else is doing it. We'd have to cross the lake and sneak into their camp—there's no way Bobby approved this."

"Yeah, he might have approved the alternate for-teacher-eyes-only list instead. You think he'd ever agree to let someone steal his hat?" Sam mumbled, eyes downcast.

"I keep forgetting you're a Winchester. You _like_ detention," Castiel snapped.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, you're right I guess. Let's go back to camp and help Dean and Lisa celebrate their victory then…"

Castiel fully realized that Sam was just trying to goad him into helping him with his crazy plan. That didn't mean it didn't work. "Fine," he said tersely, still picturing Dean and Lisa together, celebrating their success. "Do you have a plan?"

"Of course," Sam smiled victoriously and tapped the side of his head. "Tonight is the big Cheyenne camping trip."

"Aren't they already at camp?"

"Yeah, but they have electricity, working showers and air-conditioned cabins so that doesn't really count as camping. This is the one night everybody grabs a tent and actually spends a night sleeping outdoors and that means we can sneak into their cabins while they're gone and grab something. We'll just have to avoid the counselors."

"How do you know this?"

Sam shrugged. "I used to date this girl from Cheyenne, Ruby. She told me. So what do say?"

He was going to tell Sam no, but Castiel heard his rebellious mouth say yes instead. "This is completely idiotic," he muttered repeatedly as Sam led them around the edge of the lake and into enemy territory.

The afternoon had faded quickly into twilight however and it was difficult to see where they were going. Sam continued to insist though that there was an easy trail around the lake that would lead them right into Cheyenne's main plaza and so they picked their way through the darkening woods.

Castiel stumbled over broken branches and haphazardly strewn rocks until he threw up his hands in defeat. "We're lost, Sam. I can't even see the lake anymore. We should go back."

"Nah, I'm sure it's just a little further," Sam stalled and tugged at Castiel's sleeve. "C'mon, Cas, we're so close! Wouldn't you say that's a light up there in the trees?"

There did indeed seem to be a glow shining through the trees up ahead and they moved a little faster, excitement building. It was only as they staggered into a clearing that Castiel realized the light had been coming from a gigantic bonfire instead of a sprawl of cabins—they had walked right into Cheyenne's temporary camp.

"Shit," Sam breathed as a hand slapped over his mouth. The last thing Castiel saw was the other boy's panicked expression before he too was grabbed and a blindfold thrust over his eyes.

* * *

**This chapter kind of got away from me! I had originally planned for Dean and Cas to be paired together and then Sam decided to be stubborn and insisted that Cas should be on his team. I seriously tried to write it a million times where Dean and Cas teamed up but I just couldn't. And then, Sam had to go do something stupid to prove he could beat Dean...seriously, the chapter was not supposed to go this way but I actually think I like it better now! I give all the credit to Sam...**

**And, no, I'm not crazy for talking about the characters like they're real people. Not totally crazy anyway. Whatever. Please review lol:)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey all! Sorry on the slow updates! RL is messy right now! Thanks for sticking with me though.**

**I realized that in order to get where I was going with this, I needed some more back story on Dean. I have added extra information into Chapters 3, 4, 5 and 6 as a consequence in order to help the story flow more and, well, just be a better story.**

**However, if you are not into rereading, you can pick up pretty much everything you need to know from this chapter! So it's all good. **

**Love you all and I'll try to update as soon as possible:)**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Castiel awoke to murmuring voices.

"Does Golden Bell even have money for this sort of thing?" a voice to his right growled. "All we're liable to get for our efforts are a couple broken instruments and somebody's used gym shorts. And that's assuming these two are worth anything."

"The floppy-haired one looks familiar," a second, lighter voice replied, "Didn't Ruby say she dated one of those scum over there for a while?"

"Now that you mention it, he does look a little familiar. Still probably isn't worth much of a ransom though. Maybe we should just leave them both here instead and see how long it takes for somebody to find them. Could be fun."

"Crowley and Alistair bothered to tip us off. That must mean these two are special somehow. Now shut up and let me think."

Castiel cracked his eyes open and the feet of two dark figures swam into focus under the edge of his blindfold. He wriggled his hands experimentally, but they had been bound tightly behind his back. The rest of him was tied against something hard, possibly a tree.

He tried to remember what had happened but his head throbbed at the thought and he moaned with pain. One of the voices laughed.

"Looks like this one's awake, Mike. Let the fun times begin!"

"Just not too much fun, Luc," the other voice cautioned. "You don't want another mark on your record. You can actually be tried as an adult at seventeen."

Castiel groaned again. Nothing about this situation bode well. He was attempting to recall what had happened to Sam when his blindfold was suddenly ripped off and a leering smile swam into view.

"Well hello, beautiful. Get a look at those pretty blue eyes of yours!" A wave of bad breath and a red buzz cut greeted him. "Don't suppose you want to tell us what a pair of underclassmen Lawrence scum are doing all the way out here?"

"We got lost…it was a mistake," Castiel groaned as the beam of a flashlight pierced his eyes. "Where's Sam? What did you do with him?"

The red-haired boy's expression remained untroubled though and a gleeful sneer spread slowly across his face. "You wouldn't happen by any chance to mean Sam Winchester, would you?" he said slowly, "Did you hear that, Michael? Sam Winchester!"

A split second later, a second face crowded into his sight and two deep brown eyes locked on his like a laser beam. "I need you to repeat exactly what you just said. Right now." The other boy's flashlight shook in emphasis.

Castiel had trouble focusing however as his the corners of his vision became blurry again and didn't reply. As the edges of his sight began to fade to black, he thought he caught a flash of Sam's red flannel shirt out of the corner of one eye. "Sam? Sam?" he croaked and fought to stay conscious.

Sam, or at least someone whose subsequent grunt resembled Sam, gave a feeble kick at his call but didn't move otherwise. "What did you do to us?" Castiel asked hoarsely, twisting his hands against the cord that bound his wrists.

"Taser," the kid named Luc replied quickly. At Castiel's horrified expression he amended, "Just kidding, gotcha! But seriously, I haven't found a way to steal one. Yet."

Michael frowned in disapproval at the other boy but answered Castiel after a moment. "Look, when Lucifer here tried to grab you, you slipped and hit a rock. Your reflexes seriously suck, by the way. Winchester tried to fight but ran into a tree. He'll be fine. You both might want to consider repeating P.E though because that was just embarrassing," he added.

It occurred to Castiel to ask what the chances were of simultaneously meeting two random people named Michael and Lucifer, but he stuck to the essentials. "How do you know Sam's okay?" he growled and glared at the two of them. His head felt clearer by the second now that he knew Sam was nearby.

"He's a Winchester," Michael explained in a 'duh' tone of voice. "Takes a little more than a hit to the head to crack skulls as thick as those."

"You act like you know them but you didn't recognize Sam."

"So you're a clever freshman, are you?" Michael smiled shrewdly, "I happen to know Sam's older brother."

"Dean?"

"The one and only. Hard to miss, isn't he? Maybe it's the freckles? Or that obnoxious strut?"

Castiel wasn't in the mood to humor Michael though. "What do you want?" he asked, straight to the point.

The two Cheyenne boys exchanged an identical grin and Michael answered, "Well, before we knew what we had here, we considered leaving you in the woods or making you our personal slaves—"

"But now," Lucifer interrupted, "I think it might be time for a little pay back on the guy who stiffed my brother and ruined our perfect season last year."

"Stiffed? You mean…you and Dean?"

Michael threw him a thoughtful look. "You have a problem with that? Or are you just Dean's newest boy toy?" His eyes grew calculating as if he had somehow read Castiel's mind and found the memory of the quick warm press of Dean's lips. "He picks a different one each summer, you know. Mostly freshmen. In fact, he's probably screwed half the county by now."

Michael paused for a moment to inspect the blush that had crept over Castiel's cheeks. "So I'm right, huh? That's rich. I suppose you thought you were different, didn't you? How quaint," he laughed. "Luc, judging by that blush, I'd say we have a virgin on our hands."

"I can fix that." A wicked glint gleamed from Lucifer's eye.

Castiel felt like he had been punched in the stomach. "You're both…liars," he muttered even though he had a sinking feeling Michael had been right. If Dean could have been with someone like Michael, he could have been with anyone. Castiel was a nobody in the scheme of things. He thought again of the way Dean had laughed with Lisa.

Michael clapped him on the shoulder and stood up. "But, I digress—let's get back to business. Keep it in your pants for a few more minutes, Lucifer," he addressed the other boy, who was now staring at Castiel like a fresh piece of meat. Lucifer threw a meaningful wink his direction but moved obediently to stand by his brother.

A sharp slap rang abruptly through the clearing and Sam groaned again, louder this time. "Wakey wakey Sammy, baby," Lucifer chanted in a sing-song voice. "Time to join the party."

Castiel couldn't see what happened next but a muffled curse from Lucifer was quickly followed by the sound of second slap. "You're going to live to regret that little stunt, Winchester." Lucifer reappeared in Castiel's line of sight, wiping something off his shirt.

"You talk to the brat, Mike. The little dickwad got spit all over me." Castiel felt a surge of vicarious triumph for Sam and strained against his ropes.

Michael spoke next. "Sammy Winchester. I feel like I know you already. Dean's favorite person."

"You know my brother?" Sam's voice was thick and the edges of his speech slurred together.

Michael didn't bother to answer the question and continued in the next breath, "Dean talked about you constantly, you know. It was always 'Sammy needs this' or 'Sam thinks that' or 'I miss Sammy'. I swear, he barely noticed anyone else compared to you. You were the biggest pain in my ass last year and I never even met you. What's your secret?"

"You're Michael."

Michael chuckled. "So Dean-o talked about me after all, huh? He must love me a little."

"He came home because of you." An angry tremor ran through Sam's voice.

"And we lost at the state championships last year because of him, which don't think Lucifer and I haven't forgotten. Now, what do you say you let me know what cabin Dean's in over at Crappy Bell so I can pay him a visit?"

"Bite me."

"Kinky. I like it. Well, Sam, if you're not going to play along, maybe your friend will."

"Leave Cas alone!" Castiel heard footsteps as Michael approached and the older boy crouched down to whisper in his ear.

"So, Cas, huh? Nice. I think I'd rather call you blue-eyes though." He motioned to where Lucifer still stood smirking. "How about you tell me where Dean is, Blue-eyes, or I'll let Lucy have his wicked way with you?"

Castiel bit his tongue and Michael smiled. "I'm actually a little glad you didn't cave in to that because now I get to say this next part—what about Sam? Will Dean still like you oh so much if you let his little brother get ravaged while he's away?"

There wasn't any other option. Dean, for all his many faults and probable relationships, would never sacrifice Sam and neither would Castiel. "Cabin Three," he spat at Michael.

Michael stood up, brushing the dirt off his jeans and pointed his flashlight at Lucifer. "C'mon, Luc. Let's go pay Golden Bell a visit."

Lucifer looked disappointed. "But you said—"

"First things first. We need a bargaining chip with Winchester and it wouldn't work to mess these two up. Yet." He smiled at his brother. "Emphasis on the 'yet'."

Lucifer nodded and Michael turned back to Castiel. "You two just stay put, you hear me? Don't think about yelling—the Cheyenne camp is too far away and they wouldn't help you anyway. The drum majors," he pointed to himself and Lucifer, "have forbidden it."

At that, the two boys headed in what must have been the direction of Golden Bell, taking their flashlights with them and leaving Castiel and Sam in darkness. The night had turned cold and Castiel shivered against his tree, thinking of the warm cabin where Garth, Ash and Chuck were probably already playing their nightly game of D&D.

"Cas?" Sam asked through the darkness.

"I'm sorry Sam. I couldn't let them hurt you."

"S'kay," Sam slurred back, fighting a shiver out of his own voice. "Dean would have done the same."

The mention of Dean's name brought something Michael had said back to mind. "What did Michael mean? Dean ruined their marching season?"

Sam was silent for a heartbeat. "I guess I should tell you Dean didn't go to Lawrence High last year. Only I did. Dean went to Cheyenne," he finally said. "Our parents got a divorce last summer and Dean stayed with Dad. He was always loyal to Dad. Me and Dad, on the other hand, fought all the time and I couldn't bring myself to live with the man, even if it meant leaving Dean. I think it killed Dean a little when I chose Mom."

Castiel waited for Sam to go on. "I thought things would work themselves out, but they never did. Dean met Michael and he got weird. He acted like the sun rose and set with him or something. I didn't really understand it and I don't think Dean did either. There were weeks I didn't hear from him at all."

"So they did go out," Castiel said resignedly.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "For a few months I think. Then I got this phone call in November from Dean saying he was headed home to live with Mom. I asked about Michael but Dean wouldn't talk about it. He just moved back in with me, registered for Lawrence and finished the rest of the year here."

"So you don't know what happened?"

"No, but I always thought it had something to do with Michael and now I think it's all somehow tied into why Cheyenne High didn't win the state championship last October."

Castiel was silent, absorbing all the new information when Sam injected, "The worst part was that when he came back, he wasn't even himself anymore. Sure, he'd always had kind of an ego, but he'd turned into a real jerk—as I'm sure you've realized. It wasn't until you showed up at camp that I started seeing glimpses of the old Dean reappear, so thanks for that I guess."

Castiel recalled the conversation he had had with Sam when Sam showed him the rock paper scissors trick and felt suddenly guilty. "I almost drowned Dean in the lake," he admitted.

"Yeah, he told me. Probably was the best thing to happen to him all year."

"That wasn't the response I expected."

"Cas, Dean likes you, even if he sucks at showing it. And I think you like him too. Isn't there a Bible verse about how many waters can't quench love?"

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Castiel asked, dubious.

He imagined he could almost see Sam's answering grin. "Totally. And it was a pretty good one, if I do say so myself."

Castiel let himself chuckle at Sam before a thought occurred to him. "Does Bobby know about all this? He's your uncle isn't he?" There was an uncomfortable pause on Sam's end.

"No. Dean's always been kind of a pain in the ass to Bobby and I think Bobby just figures he got worse while he was at Cheyenne. Like I said, Dean never wanted to talk about Michael after he came home. I had to guess everything for myself."

Castiel sighed. "So what do we do now?"

Sam's answer was instantaneous. "We wait. Dean will come for us as soon as he finds out. And then he's going to make Michael wish he was never born."

* * *

**Reviews are much loved and they help me write faster!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thanks for all the great feedback on the last chapter! All that awesome support definitely helped me churn out this one, so thanks for that! And without further ado...**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Dean was in the middle of spectacularly destroying the cool-guy reputation he had so carefully spent the last half year building and he didn't care—Sam and Cas had been missing for hours and he could barely think straight anymore.

It was several shades of ironic that Dean hadn't immediately noticed the duo's absence since he had spent the majority of the scavenger hunt keeping close tabs on his brother and Castiel. If he were willing to be totally honest with himself however, what he had actually done was probably closer to stalking than keeping tabs per se, but Dean wasn't quite ready to admit that yet. To be fair, he had genuinely tried to have a good time with Lisa, but found that every moment he wasn't absolutely required to catch, eat or jump over something had been spent watching Cas.

It was hardly his fault that Castiel was so damn watchable though. And now, thanks to the official perks of being friends, he didn't even have to sneak around to do it either. After all, it was perfectly normal to catch his friend's eye at random moments or to remember the way his friend had looked with droplets of lake water in his eyelashes…or to imagine kissing his friend again.

Dean grimaced and did a mental face-smack. Okay, so maybe he wasn't as great of a friend as he'd thought. Cas however had made it perfectly clear at breakfast that all he wanted was friendship though, much to Dean's disappointment. He'd certainly been quick to define the whatever-it-was they had shared the previous night as mere friendship to Ash.

Dean could learn to live with that though, he really could. Friends were great and it wasn't like he had a lot of those to begin with. Somehow, despite being popular, when it came to real friendship, he had only Sam. And, as it turned out, his brother had been right about Alistair and Crowley being first class dicks. Now that Dean thought about it, he could probably use a friend who wasn't related to him.

Besides, all Dean really ever managed to do in relationships was fuck them up. The way things had ended with Michael certainly proved that. If he started anything with Castiel, the only real guarantee was that he eventually would not only mess things up but would also lose Castiel's friendship in the process. It would be far better to just deal with a little unrequited crush than risk everything on a relationship. He mentally kicked himself again for kissing the other boy.

Come to think of it, he wasn't sure how Cas had gotten so far under his skin. Dean had been mostly positive that Castiel just annoyed him right up until the kid had fought fire with fire in their prank war. He had to admire the kind of guts it took a freshman to fight back against a junior much less Alistair and Crowley. He almost smiled at the thought Castiel's boxer prank evoked but was immediately sobered—night had fallen and not a soul in Golden Bell had seen Castiel or Sam for hours.

Most of the camp was already discreetly searching for the pair, making rounds down by the lake, checking the latrines and examining every nook and cranny of the camp. No one who valued their life wanted the job of mentioning to Bobby that his favorite nephew and his other nephew's—something—were missing.

Dean was about to do it though: His single job was to protect Sam and he was failing at it. Again. He had sworn when he made the mistake of moving in with his dad instead of staying with Sammy that he wouldn't repeat his mistake, yet here he was, standing before Bobby's cabin and about to inform his uncle that he had lost his little brother.

He pulled his worn copy of the scavenger list from the back pocket of his jeans. The last time he had seen the both of them had been during the popcorn toss. What had been next? Sam and Cas must have disappeared during the time it took him to snag Bobby's cap from the coat hanger inside the old man's cabin. He and Lisa had crossed the finish line right after that and he noticed the two of them were missing almost twenty minutes later.

The untidy scrawl at the bottom of the list caught his eye in the flickering porch light and he read the last task again.

_Bonus: Collect a band shirt or other logo item from the Cheyenne School of the Performing Arts. (10 points)_

Surely they weren't that stupid. Sam knew that Michael went to Cheyenne…he knew that it wasn't safe for him over there…or at least Sam might have known all of that if Dean had actually told him. His gut sank at the thought and, with a sinking feeling, he was suddenly sure of where his brother and Castiel had gone.

Sam had dated Ruby after all, a transfer student from Cheyenne—it wasn't so unbelievable that he would try to visit the other camp to gain the bonus item from someone he considered a friend. It was entirely Dean's own fault he had never warned his brother about Michael and Lucifer. Dean had worked so hard to put his whole personal fiasco behind him that he had never talked about his semester there and now Sam and Cas were going to pay for it.

Knowing what he needed to do, he turned around without knocking on Bobby's door and raced back toward the junior cabins. He was going to need a flashlight, a baseball bat and maybe even some of that stupid keychain mace Sam forever insisted on bringing to everything.

Dean threw open his cabin door and groped blindly for a light switch. As his fingers traced the wooden siding however, a voice spoke suddenly from the darkness, making him jump.

"Hello, Dean." Dean shivered and steadied himself against the doorframe—Michael was here. That particular unhurried drawl of his always had that effect on him. Now though, rather than shoot a thrill of anticipation down his spine, he only shuddered with dread at the sound.

"Michael," he replied, fighting to keep his voice even. Where the hell was that damn light switch? Michael didn't answer though and the following silence that stretched between them seemed to make the darkness heavier, if that was possible. Dean had the strange feeling that perhaps he was dreaming. His fingers finally found their prize however and the single cabin bulb blinked feebly to life.

The flickering yellow glow confirmed his worst fear; Michael sat on Dean's own bunk, slouched against the headboard like he belonged there, like Dean had never left Cheyenne High. Eyes ever hungry and invasive, his gaze raked over Dean. "Long time no see, handsome. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

It took him a second to gather himself. "Did they give you an A+ in obvious school, Michael? Cause that was fucking brilliant," Dean spat. He clutched at the doorframe behind him, nails digging into the soft wood.

Michael simply smirked, relaxed, and stretched his arms overhead. "I forgot how sarcastic you are, sweetie. It's rather endearing."

"Don't give me that shit, Mike. Just tell me how you found me so I can figure out how to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"All in good time, all in good time, Dean-o. I had something else I wanted to discuss first." Michael swung his knees over the side of the bed and patted the space beside him.

"Sorry, but you shouldn't have to apologize for being a douchebag—I've heard people can't change their basic personalities."

The other boy's smile only grew. Realizing Dean wasn't going to sit down, Michael propped his feet up on the mattress once more. "How about I apologize for kidnapping your brother and your boy toy instead?" he asked carefully, eyes narrowed.

Dean drove his nails further into the doorframe and forced himself not to strangle Michael then and there. He reminded himself that Lucifer was probably lurking nearby, ready to intervene if and when Dean did something rash. Besides, Michael had only confirmed what Dean had already guessed.

"Boy toy?" he choked out finally.

Michael laughed. "You should see your expression right now—Blue-Eyes turned the exact same shade of red when I threw around that little term."

"Where are Castiel and Sam? What did you do to them?"

"Mostly kept them from hurting themselves I think," Michael chuckled. "You know Alistair and Crowley tipped me off when the two of them came wandering through our camp? Seriously though, those two are probably the most uncoordinated people I have ever met: They practically bound and gagged themselves for us. It was like a magic trick in reverse."

"Give them back," Dean demanded. "Sam n' Cas are _mine_." He hadn't realized until it popped out of his mouth that he thought of Castiel as his.

Michael stood up and approached, each step making the floorboards creak in protest. He moved so close Dean could feel the other boy's breath exhale against his cheek.

"You know, I still think about you sometimes, Dean. We could have been really good together."

Dean refused to meet Michael's eyes. "_You_ ruined that one, not me."

Michael, if it was even possible at that point, leaned further into his personal space. "Did I really? Can you honestly say that right now?" His gaze traveled over Dean's mouth. "Because I think, deep down, you're still attracted to me." He raised one arm to lightly grip Dean's bicep, running his hand over the muscle with practiced ease.

Dean thought about it for all of two seconds. Then, his other bicep socked his ex-boyfriend straight in the jaw because enough was enough, really. Michael landed on the cabin floor with a thud.

"You little shit—you hit me. _You_ hit _me_," he repeated, unbelieving, and rubbed an already promising bruise from his place on the floor. "Lucifer! Luc, get in here!"

Lucifer's silhouette darkened the doorway an instant later. "Michael? What's going on?" he asked and moved to help his brother up.

"You were late, that's what," Michael snapped but took Lucifer's extended hand and rose to his feet.

Dean crossed his arms. "And here's idiot number two, proving that ignorance," he indicated Michael, "loves company."

Lucifer's face turned red. "Let's give this twat what's coming to him and see how funny he is then," he sputtered.

Michael, still rubbing his jaw, laid a hand across Lucifer's chest. "And then what? We'd all get in trouble for fighting and kicked out of the marching competition. Think, Luc." He turned to Dean, straightening his shoulders. "I think I'll just enjoy the moment when Golden Bell loses the end-of-camp contest instead."

Dean smirked. "Fat chance of that."

"No, I actually think our chances are pretty good. Want to take a guess why, Dean-o?" A wicked glint gleamed from Michael's eye.

Sam and Cas. Dean had almost forgotten. "You're insane. You can't actually do anything to the two of them—this is the real world, I can call the police."

Michael shrugged. "You're right of course. But I'd be more than happy to let little Castiel know what sort of person you really are, Dean, and how you've been lying to everyone at Lawrence High. I'm sure Cas will take that well—I've already given him a tidbit of our dating history and that went rather swimmingly I think."

"Fine, I'll do it, whatever. Just let them go."

"Let's shake on it. Gives the whole deal a professional atmosphere, don't you think?"

"Great, wonderful. Now let them go."

Michael grinned as he held Dean's hand, aware that even with a nasty bruise, he had still won the exchange. "Not so fast. I didn't say I'd let them go immediately. It's a nice night out after all and a little fresh air never hurt anyone. You'll see them in the morning."

"That's not what we agreed!" Dean blurted, an edge of panic in his tone.

"Better read through the contract then before you sign next time," Michael laughed and pulled Lucifer through the door. "See you in a couple days, hot stuff."

Dean was left to stare at their retreating backs as he ran a hand through his hair. Michael had outwitted him again and had made it look easy.

Dean hated the version of himself he had been at Cheyenne around Michael. That Dean had practically worshipped at the other boy's feet, giving him what he wanted without a second thought. He had thought, when he left Cheyenne, that he also had left that person behind forever. But, as it turned out, he hadn't really—Michael, with his mere presence, had taken him straight back there tonight as if the past eight months never happened.

Dean closed his eyes and thought of how Castiel had looked that morning at breakfast, his hair messy with sleep and eyes bright when Dean had sat down beside him. He _wasn't_ the same person. He had made things right with Sam and met Cas and regardless of what Michael thought, he wasn't going to let the two of them spend a lonely night in the woods.

But, he was also going to need help.

* * *

Ash had just crawled into his sleeping bag when a knock sounded at the door. He leapt out of bed, shaking Chuck and Garth awake. "Guys! Cas is back. They found him! Didn't I tell you?"

His announcement was met with two identical thumps as the other boys jumped out of bed. Ash swung open the wooden door, a smile spread wide across his face.

"You had us really worried, you little son-of-a—" his face fell as he was greeted by Dean's sheepish expression instead of Castiel, "Yeah, bitch is about right. What the hell do you want, Winchester?"

Dean cleared his throat as he looked inside the cabin, his gaze lingering on the sand that still finely dusted the cabin corners from his indoor beach prank. "I, uh, that is to say, I know where Castiel is."

"Where? What did you to do him?"

Dean scowled. "I didn't do anything to him—did you really think I would?"

Ash crossed his arms as Chuck and Garth came to stand behind him and didn't say a word in reply.

Dean shifted uncomfortably and began again in a fast voice, "Look, Sam and Cas got themselves kidnapped by some assholes from Cheyenne. We have to find them, like five minutes ago, but I don't know where they are—"

"Wait," Ash interrupted, reading the panic in Dean's eyes. "Are you, Dean Winchester, actually asking us for help?"

Dean didn't answer but Ash found what he was looking for in his expression. "Excellent," he said and nodded to Chuck and Garth. "Let's get this party started."

* * *

**Sorry about no Dean/Cas moments in this one. Don't worry though, it will be happening;)**

**Feedback always helps me write faster! I love hearing what you guys think about where the story's going! **


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Castiel was cold. It had been hours since Michael and Lucifer had left and he had a feeling they weren't in a hurry to return. He fleetingly hoped they hadn't found Dean—just the thought of Dean and Michael in the same space made his insides curl in funny ways.

He had been lying when he told Ash that he and Dean were just friends. He didn't want to be just friends with Dean, if the twisting of his insides was anything to guess by. He wanted to be something more. Castiel didn't know how to be that to Dean though—he had no experience and the thought of all of Dean's probable experience made him feel a little like throwing up. Dean liked flings. He had had endless flings and Castiel didn't want to be one of them.

Castiel wasn't a fling sort of person. He cared too much and the thought of being with someone like Dean scared him.

He considered asking Sam for advice, but Sam had been silent for ages now and Castiel wondered if he had fallen asleep. He couldn't sleep—he had tried, but the fact that he couldn't feel the tips of his toes anymore kept him awake. He had also developed a shiver that wouldn't quit and his teeth chattered uncontrollably as he strained at the ropes once more.

Lucifer had tied the knots securely though; the best Castiel had been able to accomplish was to work the rope loose enough that it wouldn't cut off the circulation in his wrists.

The woods were eerily silent at that early hour of the morning and it unnerved him. Castiel wondered how far from Golden Bell they were. Through the long hours of the night, he hadn't heard any noise from a search party. Maybe no one had even noticed they were missing.

He told himself he was being ridiculous. Of course Dean would notice if Sam went missing. His argument sounded less and less convincing however as the hours rolled by and he was still alone in the woods.

A branch snapped suddenly in the darkness and Castiel jerked against the ropes. Something was out there. It happened again and Castiel almost called for Sam but a quick hand slapped across his mouth.

"Don't say a word," a voice breathed against his ear. "You'll wake up the Cheyenne camp."

He knew that voice. He knew that beautiful, welcoming voice that he had never truly appreciated until that moment. "Ash!" he cried anyway and Ash whacked him across the head.

"I said to shut it," his friend hissed and a knife sliced through his ropes.

Castiel could hear Sam stir. "Dean!" he yelled and another identical whack rang through the darkness. Butterflies exploded in Castiel's stomach and he couldn't help wish that Dean had been the one to free him.

He stretched his arms, working the tight muscles loose again and trying to rub a little warmth into his stiff limbs. A hand found his and pulled him up.

"I can't believe we actually found you guys," Ash whispered and Castiel could faintly see the outline of Chuck and Garth through the pale moonlight. "You feel like death warmed over, dude."

A couple crackles later and Dean emerged from the underbrush, propping a limping Sam beside him.

Castiel had a million things he wanted to say to Dean and a million questions he wanted to ask. So, he turned to Sam instead. "Sam, are you okay?" he inquired through chattering teeth.

Sam grimaced. "I must have twisted my ankle when I ran into that tree and it hasn't been propped up or iced or anything so of course it's ten times its normal size."

"Dude. The marching competition is the day after tomorrow," Garth pointed out unhelpfully.

Ash snapped his fingers. "Not that I don't love family reunions or am not concerned about how Sam's dumb ankle is going to affect his marching performance but we're still a little too close to the Cheyenne camp for my tastes."

Castiel thought of Lucifer and shuddered. The group started moving quickly through the woods, putting distance between themselves and the other camp. Castiel was thankful for the faint moonlight that lit the way—it was too risky to use their flashlights.

A persistent twang of disappointment shot through him however as they walked; Dean had yet to say a single word to him. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but Dean's utter silence wasn't it. Dean was probably furious with him for endangering his brother. Or, perhaps Michael had found him after all and Dean felt Castiel had betrayed him by giving away his cabin number.

He still hadn't come to any sort of conclusion when the lights of Golden Bell twinkled through the trees and they emerged by the old gym. The group separated then; Castiel, Garth, Chuck and Ash on one side and Dean and Sam on the other. Ash stretched his hand across the divide and offered it to Dean. "Guess we make a pretty awesome trumpet section after all, Winchester," he stated formally. Dean silently shook his hand, his perfect features a mask.

Sam wobbled on his feet. "I'm so sorry, Cas. I never meant…" he trailed off.

"I understand," Castiel replied simply and Dean's eyes flashed. He pulled his younger brother in the direction of Sam's Cabin number eight. Castiel watch them go and felt like Dean was walking out of his life as quickly as he had entered it.

He still couldn't feel his feet by the time they reached their own cabin. He turned to his friends, "I am unsure how to express the level of my gratitude," he began but Garth stopped him with a finger across his lips.

"We're friends aren't we?" Enough said."

"Yeah, Cas," Chuck chimed in. "You're one of us. We know you'd do the same."

"We're just glad you're back," Ash yawned and looked him over. "Those assholes didn't hurt you, right?"

Castiel shook his head. "How did you find me?"

"We followed your stench," Garth joked. "Seriously, take a few more showers, man."

Ash rolled his eyes. "Seriously? It was all Dean. I've never seen him that intense. It was a little scary actually. I only hacked into the Cheyenne High database to see where those douche wads set up camp. Dean figured out the rest."

Castiel was a little impressed despite himself. "Dean must really love his brother," he commented.

"Hey, don't undervalue yourself. He seemed pretty worried about you too. Aren't you two like besties now?" Ash asked and a tiny twinge of jealousy crossed his expression.

Castiel was suddenly ashamed he hadn't been forthcoming with his friends. He hadn't told them about the lake or anything. He looked Ash deliberately in the eye and rested his hands on the other boy's shoulders. "_You_ guys are my best friends," he said truthfully. "Whatever Dean and I are, it isn't friends."

Ash looked relieved. "Well, we like you too, in case searching for your kidnapped ass in the middle of the fucking night wasn't enough of a clue." And, because they weren't emotionally stunted, they hugged. "Now, off to bed ladies," Ash clapped his hands. "I am in some serious need of a little beauty sleep."

"You don't have to tell us that, Ash—we can see it in your fugly face," Chuck shot back and, just like that, it was like the past day had never happened and they all cracked up.

Castiel pulled on his warmest pajamas plus his thick hand-knitted sweater and even his rain jacket, but still couldn't get warm. Therefore an hour later, when the soft snores of his cabin-mates drifted through the night, Castiel was still awake.

A sudden knock tapped lightly at the cabin door and, surprised, Castiel nearly fell out of bed at the sound.

He almost didn't answer, afraid that Michael or Lucifer had come back. He told himself firmly he wasn't a wimp though and grabbed Ash's D&D wizard staff from where it leaned in a corner. With a final deep breath, he threw the door open, staff in hand.

"Whoa, Gandalf. I come in peace." It was Dean and despite his joke, looked nervous underneath the flickering porch light.

"What are you doing here? Where is Sam?" Castiel asked pointedly. He didn't realize he was waving the staff around until Dean grabbed it from him.

"Seriously, has no one mentioned you could put an eye out with this? Sam's fine," he answered. "He's tucked into his bunk and sleeping like a baby. I actually came by to see how you were doing, Cas."

"You're not mad at me?"

Dean looked taken aback. "No, of course I'm not mad at you. Are you mad at me?"

"No," Castiel answered, confused. "Why would I be?"

Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. "Because this whole thing is sort of my fault."

"It was not you who kidnapped me."

"Yeah, well it might as well have been. You met Michael," he said like that was an explanation.

"Yes," Castiel replied and hoped Dean would continue.

Dean's face fell and he said in a quiet voice, "I see. Well, it was nice being friends with you while it lasted, Castiel." He turned to go.

"Wait," Castiel called with not a little panic and grabbed his arm. "I never said that. Don't go." It was a little embarrassing how much he wanted the other boy there.

Dean froze the moment Castiel touched his arm like he had been just as reluctant to leave. "Cas, your hands are like ice," he commented.

Castiel instantly snatched his hand back. "Well that's what happens when you are tied to a tree for hours in the middle of the woods—" he started but got the breath knocked out of him as Dean enveloped him into a hug.

Dean was warm and smelled faintly of leather and peppermint. Castiel felt like a puzzle piece sliding into place against his broad shoulders. The older boy's arms circled snuggly around his back and without consciously meaning to, Castiel felt himself lean into Dean's heat. "What are you doing?" he mumbled against Dean's neck.

"Warming you up," Dean rumbled in his ear. "Is it working?"

Castiel slid his arms into Dean's open leather jacket and circled his waist, hugging the other boy to him. "Don't be hasty," he sighed. "This may take several minutes."

"Okay," Dean said simply and began rubbing circles into his back that Castiel found very distracting. "I'm so sorry, Cas," he breathed into his hair. "I came as soon as I realized what had happened."

Castiel pulled back a fraction so he could at Dean directly. "Did Michael find you?"

"Yeah, he did," Dean answered candidly, his green eyes searching Castiel's. "What exactly did he tell you?"

Castiel thought of freshmen flings and of what Michael had revealed about their relationship. "Not much, but I don't really want to talk about it," he said and leaned back into Dean's warmth, nuzzling his neck.

Dean moaned a little and then pulled away. "I should go—I'm sure after meeting Michael you'd rather not see me anymore." He looked so heartbroken as he said it that Castiel did the only thing he could think of: He kissed him.

Dean let out a muffled yell of shock that turned quickly into a groan. "Cas, stop, I need to tell you—" he panted but Castiel kissed him furiously.

"Shut up for once, Dean Winchester. You're ruining this."

Dean didn't speak for several minutes after that. With an enthusiasm Castiel hadn't expected, he flipped them both around, pressing Castiel into the porch rail and slipping a knee between his legs.

The world faded to shadows around them and all Castiel knew was Dean and the insistent press of his lips and the way his hands traveled greedily up and down his sides. Dean had been his first and only kiss, but he kissed differently that night, like he was possessed. He felt the other boy lick the seam of his mouth, asking permission and Castiel granted it.

Dean tasted like he smelled, of peppermint and dark leather and maybe a little bit like summer. Castiel couldn't help but shudder and Dean took it as a sign to kiss him harder. "Cas," he moaned as Castiel's hips bucked into his, "I never thought…you have no idea how much I've wanted this. I thought…in the woods…if I let myself talk to you or hug you or anything, I wouldn't be able to control myself. You told Ash we were friends."

Castiel looked at him seriously then, noting how his freckles almost reflected in the porch light. "Dean, we are not friends," he said firmly and kissed him again slowly afterwards. "But I am also not your boy toy," he added as the conversation with Michael flashed through his mind again. Castiel slipped out from where he had been somehow pinned to the porch rail.

Dean ran a hand through his hair. "About that…"

"Maybe it would best be saved for morning?"

Dean looked relieved and offered Castiel a half-smile. "Yeah," he sighed and reached for Castiel's hand. After a moment he asked, "Even if we're not friends, can I still ask you a favor?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, I can't exactly go back to my cabin. Alistair and Crowley are there. Do you think the guys would mind if I slept on the floor tonight?"

"I don't think so. I believe they would appreciate the irony of you sleeping in what's left of the sand you dumped all over it."

"Okay, great. Sand it is," Dean smiled.

"Great," Castiel repeated and smiled too.

They tiptoed across the cabin to Castiel's bunk and Dean grabbed the extra blanket that lay over his sleeping bag. Castiel chuckled and snagged the other boy's arm.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked. Dean gestured to the floor. "I'm still cold," Castiel whispered slyly into his ear and dragged his non-friend down onto the mattress. Dean grinned like a crazy person and obediently wrapped his arms around him once more.

"I think I like not being friends with you, Castiel," was the last thing he said.

Castiel thought as he drifted off to sleep that he couldn't remember ever being as happy as he was in Dean's arms, with his face tucked into Dean's neck.


	11. Chapter 11

**New Year's Resolutions: **

**1. Finish Band Camp. **

**2. Fish the pencils, incomplete math assignments and gum out of the school bass drum. (I really hate my percussionist sometimes)**

**You can totally tell which one I wanted to do first. **

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Warm and comfortable, Castiel awoke to the sound of murmuring voices.

"Should we wake them?"

"Hells yes, but first I need to take a picture. Where is that damn phone?"

"Do you think Dean knows he drools when he sleeps?"

Sure enough, Castiel could feel a wet patch on his t-shirt. Sometime during the night they had shifted so that Dean, still asleep, was partially straddling Castiel's chest. He was rather heavy.

Castiel cracked an eye open and found Ash grinning at him from behind his phone. "Wait—don't tell me—you two were huddled together for warmth? Say cheese," he smirked and the phone flashed.

Castiel winced, his mind a blank. "Actually, that's exactly what happened," he rasped but Ash waved a finger at him.

"Careful now. You're going to wake lover boy here."

"He's not my—" he began to protest but was thwarted by an unconscious Dean who chose that moment to snuggle—there was really no other word for the way he rubbed himself lazily against Castiel—further into his chest.

Ash looked triumphant. Touching something on his phone, he leaned over to pass the device to Garth and Chuck. "You know, I think I'm gonna Instagram that baby. Cocky, know-it-all upperclassmen drools on surprisingly naïve younger classman—it's a classic in the making."

Castiel glared at him from underneath Dean, who, still with perfect timing, started to snore.

"What? You going to smite me, Cas? Sorry, but this ain't Dungeons and Dragons," Ash said with a laugh. He took another long look at Dean. "So, not friends, huh? This is what you meant?"

Castiel had the decency to look sheepish. "Maybe. I don't know. It sort of just…happened."

"So, what? Dean pulls your pigtails on the playground and it works?"

Castiel glanced over at his companion. Dean looked perfectly content, his arm thrown over Castiel's stomach and a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes."

"It's really a shame we've all reached some sort of truce, you know, because all my instincts are screaming at me right now to dump a cold bucket of water over his head."

"I would prefer you didn't."

Ash seemed to realize something. "Does this mean we have to add him to our D&D league?" he asked, horrified. An awkward silence stretched between the boys as they all tried to picture it.

"Let's make him a hobbit," Chuck suggested finally and a wicked smirk stretched across Ash's face at the proposal.

"My god. Dean Winchester is totally a hobbit."

Castiel rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Seriously? Maybe we can just keep some things between the four of us. Dean's just—Dean."

They all looked at one another with identical smiles. Just because things had changed between Dean and Castiel didn't mean everything had to change.

At the sound of his name however, Dean started to move. Ash was quick to bolt to the cabin door, not quite as cocky around Dean as he pretended, but whispered before he left, "By the way, Cas—when everyone asks at breakfast, we'll be happy to let them know you and Dean are busy cuddling for manly warmth."

Bonding moment aside, Castiel might have tried to flip Ash off then if his arm hadn't been pinned underneath Dean.

* * *

A sleepy calm descended as soon as the other boys were out the door. Dean stretched idly against Castiel and his eyes fluttered open.

They stared at each other for a long moment. "You warm? I am." Dean sighed.

Castiel wanted to be concerned about what Ash, Chuck and Garth were going to tell everyone but couldn't muster the energy. He smiled against the top of Dean's head. "Very warm, in fact," he replied.

"Good. Means I did my job. You think there are careers for this sort of thing?"

"Probably. I want to be your only customer though."

Dean was suddenly at eye level with him, a hair's breadth away. "First of all, that was corny. Second—I could be okay with that." And then, before Castiel really thought about it, his lips were pressed against Dean's.

Dean tasted just like he had last night—of peppermint, leather and now maybe a little bit like morning breath. (The guy was only human after all.) Castiel smiled into the kiss and Dean broke away.

"What?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking about last night."

Dean sighed. "Man, that went beyond my wildest expectations. I had totally steeled myself to be just friends and you kinda blew me outta the water. In a good way though," he was quick to say.

Castiel reiterated what he had told Dean the previous night. "We are most assuredly _not_ friends."

"Is that dirty talk Castiel-style? As your non-friend, am I allowed to do this?" he asked with a wink and a smirk and ran his hands underneath the hem of Castiel's shirt.

For a wild moment, Castiel was tempted to let Dean continue; his hands were doing crazy things to the state of his insides and a deep-seated heat had begun to pool deliciously in his stomach. With a wince however, he rolled away.

"We should talk."

"Thought you didn't want to talk." Dean frowned, looking worriedly at the space between them. Castiel swung his legs over the side of the bunk.

"That was last night. It's morning now."

Dean crossed his arms and adopted a blank stare. "Right—right. You deserve some answers. I can't promise you'll like what you hear though, Cas."

Castiel wanted nothing more than to pretend he had never met Michael and Lucifer but couldn't. He braced himself. "What were you to Michael exactly?" he began. "I gathered from what he told me that you two were together, but Sam seemed to think it was more complicated than that."

"Sam's smarter than I give him credit for," Dean mused. "Yeah, so we're really doing this then? Talking?"

Castiel nodded. He desperately wanted to reach a hand out to touch Dean because the other boy looked like he could use some encouragement, but didn't trust himself.

Dean spared another wistful glance at the space between them again before he spoke. "Michael. Michael was, well, _everything_ to me at one point. Mom n' Dad had just split and Dad really needed me so I moved in with him. The problem, now that I think about it though, wasn't the move. It was that Sam didn't come with us. Sam is my little brother, sure, but he's also sometimes—don't tell him I said this—my own personal Jiminy Cricket. Without him, I was pretty lost, to tell you the truth.

"Then I met Michael. One day I was this friendless transfer nobody and the next day, I had friends and I had Michael. And, as you know, as it turned out, Michael wasn't interested in being _only_ friends with me."

Dean glanced at Castiel as he said the last part like he was expecting him to tell him to stop or say he'd had enough. Castiel only nodded however and Dean reluctantly continued.

"So yeah, I hadn't really done the dude thing before, but Michael took me on a date and…it was nice. He has this ability to act like you're the most interesting person he's ever met and when you talk, he _really_ listens. It was flattering I guess. I only found out the other stuff later on," he ended in a small voice.

Castiel couldn't help himself. Before he realized what he was doing, he had swung himself back into the bed, side by side with Dean and twined their fingers together. Dean closed his eyes like he couldn't face the world as he told the next part.

"I practically worshipped the guy. I gave him everything, even my virginity. I let him take it too—I thought I wanted it. And god," he groaned, "that sounds so stupid to whine about—it's not like I'm the poster boy for good clean fun. But it still kind of seemed like something special to me at the time."

Dean finally looked at Castiel. "The rest of the story is pretty uninteresting, Cas. I think the movies have pretty much covered it a million times. If I had spent a little more time really looking at the kind of person Michael was and a little less time worshipping him, I probably could have guessed I wasn't the only person he was seeing.

"Instead, I found out publically and embarrassingly that Michael had several flings going—I can't un-see his face when I walked in on him and this other guy together. He fucking _smiled_ at me and asked if I wanted to join in on the fun.

"So then I did the only reasonable thing I could think of—I bailed. I transferred back home and tried to bury the whole memory. Sam, mini psychologist that he is, would probably say I'm super repressed and unhealthy but sue me—I don't want to give Michael any more of my time than I already did and that includes dwelling on it."

Dean closed his eyes, finished, and Castiel swallowed, his throat dry. He couldn't decided if he wanted to hug Dean and never let go or find Michael and beat him with Ash's wizard staff. He still had one last question however.

"Michael and Lucifer seem to think loosing the state marching band finals last year was your fault."

A smile appeared suddenly at the corner of Dean's mouth and he finally seemed to realize that they were holding hands. He gave Castiel's fingers a squeeze. "Yeah, dude, I may have been emotionally scarred and all that shit but I wasn't about to just let Michael get away with being a first-class douchebag."

"And…" Castiel prompted.

"Remember how I said I'm awesome at trumpet?"

"You said that?" Castiel remarked with not a little sarcasm.

Dean full out laughed and whacked him good-naturedly across the chest. "As it turns out, I _am_ actually awesome at trumpet."

"Wait—what?"

"I was section leader—of course—and had this big solo at the competition. The whole field literally opened up around me and my job was to wail my heart out for a whole sixteen measures during the ballad."

Castiel's mind was a blank. "You're kidding. That's not possible. We had a lesson—"

"Dude. Seriously? No one learns Bach duets that quickly unless they've practiced them before." Dean rolled his eyes like he couldn't believe Castiel hadn't figured it out.

Castiel threw his head back into the pillow and groaned. "So that means…"

"I purposely failed my audition? You betcha. Sometime during the first thirty seconds of it I realized I didn't actually want to be section leader again. Like I said, been there, done that, got the t-shirt. It wasn't that great at Cheyenne anyhow and if there's one thing I'm sure about, it's that I definitely don't want to have a repeat of what happened there.

"Being a jerk about losing was kind of about keeping up appearances more than anything else—no junior should just go quietly when he loses to a freshman," he added.

It was too much information and Castiel struggled to keep ahold of the conversation. "So the marching competition…"

Dean snickered. "I might have played sixteen bars of an out-of-tune 'Highway to Hell' instead of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata'. The judges weren't impressed."

Castiel needed more time to process everything but he couldn't help the relieved laughter that built inside his chest. Dean wasn't a nymphomaniac or an ex-convict or any of Castiel's worst fears. He was suddenly hysterical, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, and Dean was laughing with him.

When they finally stopped, Castiel leaned over and kissed him.

Dean's whole face lit up and he touched his lips. "Sorry, but were you not listening to any of that? Not only do I have terrible taste in men but I totally sabotaged my own band. And I'm a poor loser even though I deliberately failed my audition."

"You picked me. I wouldn't call that so terrible," Castiel pointed out.

"True," Dean grinned back at him.

Castiel sobered a little however. "I am sorry that Michael used you though, " he said earnestly. "You have every right to feel angry. To be honest, I am a little relieved to hear that you haven't had a different freshmen every week in every county across Kansas."

Dean's eyes widened. "Dude. He said that? I know I'm a total lady-killer, but seriously, when would I ever sleep?"

"Or practice your trumpet." They dissolved into giggles once more. It wasn't very manly, but Castiel kind of liked it.

Dean rolled over then, pulling Castiel into a hug. "Seriously though, I'm kind of hoping better things are on the horizon. Sam likes you," he said like that was all the validation he needed.

Castiel carded his hands through Dean's hair and was fairly certain that lying in bed with Dean was going to become a habit.

"So what's the plan?" he asked the other boy.

"Plan?" Dean repeated a little too innocently.

"Surely you are not planning to allow Cheyenne to win the end of summer competition."

Dean smiled wolfishly. "I think it's time we mosey on down to breakfast and have a little talk with your pal, Ash. I'm gonna need some major backup to send Lucy and Michael crying home to mommy tomorrow."

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